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Interior   [nederlands]

I am the animator, your home decorator.
I turn the inside out, play with wind and water and in twenty minutes I fool around until everything has its place.
I even brighten up the wallpaper with my wild roses.
Out! with all those square meters of wall-to-wall past.
Dear listener, this carpet now is your present.

I am the creator, I dig into your dark earth to rest among your warm-leaved begonias.
I bloom the flowers, grow the grass, kill the ants after their march, to be followed by the home-made marmalade, the sugary sweet pleasure.
There is still so much to toil and KILL! The Poet.
Long live the producer, the guy who wraps these words in cellophane complete with gold print and goodgracious! don't forget the barcode at the bottom.

Because the land creates the creation and overcrowds the shelves, and everywhere I go there's so much to see, so much to eat.
There is still so much to do, and the clock is ticking backwards the future, jumps out of my coat the lice out of my hair out of my ass they dance around this millennium.
Let me share them with you, and you with me.

Let me say I'm not the only one, because there is still so much to do, and the clock is ticking backwards into the future, into the paths on the avenues, the street as our screen of the never-ending past ticks ticks ticks two thousand years on that puny nutshell Earth.
And everything is of value to space travelers, and everything here is earth and earth worms, like me.
I'm just meandering around here and poking around in your thoughts, stumble in your shit.
The poet is the louse in your pubic hair and now who is the asshole?

Once the months days, minutes seconds tick, that you are waiting for pure patience, that you hear that you see that you are silent, the void filled anxiously. The fewer voices disturb you, the sooner you will be bullied.

I am your poet, but where does my hand fit?
Caught between fear and hope and fear, stopping the dense venous bleeding - is this four-beat heart still beating - Yes, it pumps gallons powerlessly and pushes them to a heated blush, a ceasefire, people, cease fire!
Because I won't let you go, I won't leave you standing, I am your animator, your home decorator.

DatumTijd: 2000 jan 2, 16:15 CET
LatestEdit: 2023 nov 21, 17:07 CET
Auteur: Mulder

Tags:
interior
poets

Categorie├źn:
 Poetry: Hannah Celsius 

© 2023 hannah celsius