At the dock at dawn.
I may have the most conflicting
opinions, the most divergent visions, the most far out statements imaginable, both moral, amoral, rude and esthetic.
I am an asocial rethorical nightmare for many of my readers,
I act out what currently embodies as what writes, thinks and intuit.
It flows from diverse vast twilights whithin this voidless spatial abode tinged by a clearity beyond belief.
All that I am or was has vaporized.
I'm neither at home nor wandering.
I don't know what's going on.
I'm embraced by sensibility.
I'm a hazardous flickering dropout.
My writing smells like Gouda cheese in the morning!
In the afternoon it wipes out all sense of darkness.
At night it sticks with flicker.
Every time I go somewhere it's a vast journey.
Every touch is an incarnated simulation.
I am a lover of second floors.
On upper floors I shudder.
I never invade rooms on purpose.
I never lift lifted skirts.
As I draw near, sound gets sullen.
I easy fall in love with noisy presentrices.
I never find a way to make things change faster.
I never dream of destiny.
I never forge emptiness into space.
Everyday I deliver copy.
Yet never for the sake of unknowing.
Uncertain fog thins even better tacitly.
I feel bathed in wharfs.
Guided by illusions
finally slouching
we let go off spirit.
to wither away
herenow
sliding
into fog of confusion,
crucified in sour bereavement,
as grist to a mill.
Beneath fake shades of Chakra blue,
wrapped up in shallow lives,
we
tacitly
turn into falty rivers,
upstream lacking paddles
without destination
wandering
to an ending of forever
awakened to stillbornness
Wouter van Oord
