On dating hedonism in the world of poetry
...and the madman passing every 5 minutes in the chevrolet...
And so I slipped into the swan realm.
Soft, saffie-hued and salved light
browned through the forest
like a clothshift
replacing the bear
my eyes had hungrily sought
among the trembling conifers.
Mossbo Stenar, a quartz boiler,
our first stop — we left behind a bag
with passports. Later, in Delsbo,
I see how the asphalt blushes
in the pressed earth near the sock house,
where a curiously gentle robot voice
sometimes escapes and patiently offers therapy
to overly shadowsoaked people.
*
The madman in the Chevrolet
who drives by every five minutes
with Svensktoppen blaring full blast
is spheric too, no doubt. Hardheaded
the eighties ravaged
like a cult through my generation:
no one
escaped
the pan flute
in the elevator.
*
The “pressed earth” is actually the name of the street where I saw the pink quartz in the asphalt: Persgränd in Delsbo — where, indeed, there’s a curious “Sock House” from which a strange, robotic voice occasionally emerges.
On the sound engineering front, I picked up some new tricks again. Each time I learn something new, I can add another notch to my skill set.
In this track, I’m using the Pulsar Modular P19 Igloo compressor on both the master bus and the bass. I’m experimenting to figure out the best way to use this compressor — I think I’m already a fan, so I’ll probably end up buying it.
The specific trick I’m working on now is learning how to use gaters (I’ve got one from SSL) to process hi-hats in a way that tightens and enhances the rhythm.
Oh yes — the second LP by Berry Lee Berry is in the making.
*
Continuing with the “invisible section” of Sauseschritt. I hope to have the entire collection translated by the end of this month.
*
Mondrian Plays Pac-Man (and Cheats)
Strawberry. Strawberry. Banana. Banana. Ghost.
Strawberry. Strawberry. Banana. Banana. Ghost.
Strawberry. Strawberry. Banana. Banana. Ghost.
Strawberry. Strawberry. Banana. Banana. Ghost.
Strawberry. Strawberry. Strawberry. Banana. Ghost.
Strawberry. Strawberry. Strawberry. Banana. Ghost.
Strawberry. Strawberry. Strawberry. Banana. Ghost.
Strawberry. Strawberry. Strawberry. Banana. Ghost.
Ghosty. Ghosty. Ghosty. Banana. Banana.
Ghosty. Ghosty. Ghosty. Banana. Banana.
Ghosty. Ghosty. Ghosty. Banana. Banana.
Ghosty. Ghosty. Ghosty. Banana. Banana.
Ghosty. Ghosty. Ghosties. Banana. Banana.
*
Mr Snail crept into his house
and tucked all his little horns inside,
and he swallowed his poppy-seed eyes,
for he wants to see no more.
Mrs Snail went to her house
and on two of her horns grew golden gloves,
and on the other two, bells made of dew.
She rings them when silence is needed.
The little snail-child sleeps
with her tiny, tender little horns
in a shell-house oh so bare,
snoring softly on a kale leaf.
*
Mondrian plays tic-tac-toe with Pollock
Yellow disc. Red disc. Yellow disc. Drip.
Goddammit. Yellow disc. Red disc. Red disc. Drip.
(in reality, Jack—stoned with his giant candle of a brush—
would be stumbling through Piet’s curtain-world)
You Dutch are pretty fond of your curtains, aren’t you?
After Jack the Dripper
sets fire to all of Piet’s primary curtains,
he steps into one of the burning glass living rooms
and drips colour-stars all over the floor to Piet’s growing horror,
shouting Love is blind! with every splatter—
Americans,
never any good at someone else’s games—
and how, oh how,
do you explain the ideology of the glass-curtain
to a baked Americans with a dripping candles?
*
The warm mud of mortality
with you smack in the middle, absurdly so.
As if the world could be erased in fog,
so brood your smoky little eyes—
like two starved mother hens,
crazed and clucking at nothing.
*
Dear Mr. Revisor,
I’m in the middle of a colossal comeback. It’s really not normal—Benders here, Benders there. And because that runs the risk of Benders-fatigue, I only wanted to include one tiny poem in your splendid classbook.
A poem that, conveniently, is about my problematic attitude towards De Revisor itself— two birds, one confession.
Poem for the beautiful classbook of De Revisor
Sorry, shirt, for that time I ranted about pink girl poetry on SLA|Avier.
Everyone knows I never really mean the things I say.
To be honest, I’m a fan of diaries with little locks.
Sometimes there’s hair on them. Pink hair.
And say hi to Arie Boomsma for me.
I’m not jealous of his head—
but I am jealous he managed to out-Froger René Froger
with his poetics.
I cried reading your last issue,
not a single piece by Frans Timmermans.
Anyway, I hope you'll show some mercy and let me
be part of your essential document. Could you make it a gift, maybe?
I miss my darling, feel lonely like an indispensable document.
Wouldn’t it be nice if your website played a little MIDI tune…?
Where is Ton van ’t Hof, by the way? All I see are girls.
How does Arie Boomsma do it? The guy rules
the schoolbook with an iron fist.
He just doesn’t really have a salt-and-pepper beard.
There. You can put a little lock on this poem now.
*
The last poem, wrapped in feigned apology and mock-vulnerability, is a sly deconstruction of how dating hedonism—with its swipes, poses, curated wounds, and strategic self-exposure—has infiltrated the poetry world. The poem mimics the affectations of a confessional, love-struck poet begging for inclusion, but does so with such overstated candor that it exposes the performance itself.
And all that - in Font size 1.
Kind regards,
Martinus Benders
