Orgaandonor

Je ogen zal ik zijn, zodat je de wereld in al zijn pracht ziet.
Je neus zal ik zijn, zodat jij mijn zomersproetjes wordt.
Je haren zal ik zijn, zodat de wind met je speelt.
Je lippen zal ik zijn, zodat je met volle teugen van het leven proeft.
Je nagels zal ik zijn, zodat je ze vol verlangen in mijn rug kunt boren.
Je wangen zal ik zijn, zodat jij ’s ochtends geen schaamrood hoeft te voelen.

Je knieën zal ik zijn, zodat jij niet op je benen hoeft te trillen.
Je stem zal ik zijn, zodat jij niet langer om aandacht hoeft te schreeuwen.
Je schouders zal ik zijn, zodat jij geen lasten hoeft te dragen.
Je hart zal ik zijn, zodat ik pomp en jij niet verzuipt.
Je armen zal ik zijn, zodat je de wereld op een afstand kunt houden.
Je huid zal ik zijn, zodat jij geen littekens niet hoeft te dragen.

Je poriën zal ik zijn, zodat jij niet badend in het zweet wakker hoeft te worden.
Je oksels zal ik zijn, zodat jij niet hoeft te stinken.
Je voeten zal ik zijn, zodat jij geen wratten hoeft weg te snijden.
Je darmen zal ik zijn, zodat alles licht verteerbaar wordt.
Je vagina zal ik zijn, zodat jij je niet in je kont geneukt voelt.
Je stoma zal ik zijn, zodat jij schijt kan hebben aan deze wereld.

Je polsen zal ik zijn. Snij me over als het je teveel wordt.

The ten best books of the decade…

1. Jonathan Safran Foer: Extremely loud and incredibly close
2. Roddy Doyle: A star called Henry
3. Nassim Nicolas Thaleb: The black swan
4. Tom Holland: Persian Fire
5. Bill Bryson: The life and times of the Thunderbolt kid
6. Charles C. Man: 1491
7. Jared Diamond: Collapse
8. Richard Dawkins: The God Delusion
9. Markus Zusak: The Book Thief
10. Khaled Hosseini: The Kite Runner

The 10 best albums of the naughties… Façon Bruno

1. E.S.T. – Leucocyte
2. Joe Henry – Tiny voices
3. RJD2 – Deadringer
4. Charlie Hunter – Songs from the analog playground
5. Joseph Arthur – Our shadows will remain
6. The Bad Plus – These are the vistas
7. Nitin Sawhney – Human
8. Johan Johannsson – Fordlandia
9. Recoil – SubHuman
10. Portishead – Third

Booth(y) call – first published January 5th, 2005

Ever used one of those photo booths you find in shopping malls? The ones that give you four mug shots for five euro? They’re horribly depressing, aren’t they? I always hope that someone comes out as Superman (or –woman, if you fancy a transsexual superhero), but that never happens. The pictures you get are always too bright and you’re never quite in the centre. And you feel so exposed in those cubicles, hiding behind your curtain as if you’re some pervert doing whatever perverts would do in there.

Yesterday, I was in Dun Loaghaire shopping centre and there you had it. Some middle-aged woman came out of this booth (Well, she would have been middle aged if she lives to be 110). Anyway, she gave me the “Oh-my-God-you-saw-that?”-look, as if I caught her during the act. I replied with my “Did-I-ever!”-look, although there might have been a slight hint of “What-are-you-on-about” in my gaze.

Why would you want a picture of yourself, woman? And why do you want to have it taken in a booth? Look at yourself, you’re gigantic. You barely fit in there. Go to a proper photographer, in a building! This woman wasn’t chubby, she was huge. I mean, look-out-Sri-Lanka-she’s-coming-in-and-it’s-gonna-be-so-much-worse-when-this-hits-you-huge. How can people let themselves go like that? It’s just a photo booth, not an Extreme Makeover-booth. Oh, by the way, ten kilos of make-up don’t hide the fact you’re huge. It just stops you from getting into the US. “Excuse me madam, the amount of make up on your nose is considered to be a weapon of mass destruction in this country. I’m afraid it’s a one-way-ticket to Guantanamo Bay for you.”
She stumbled out of the booth, gave a Godzillaesque roar into her cell-phone and disappeared into the crepuscule. I went to Tesco and bought some bread and salmon from the omnipotent British imperialist mega-value bastards, went home, watched Stargate and called it a night. Life can be great at times.

There’s gold in them hills – Ron Sexsmith

I know it doesn’t seem that way
But maybe it’s the perfect day
Even though the bills are piling
Maybe Lady Luck ain’t smiling

But if we only open our eyes
We’d see the blessings in disguise
That all the rain clouds are fountains
Though our troubles seem like mountains

There’s gold in them hills
There’s gold in them hills
So don’t lose heart
Give the day a chance to start

Every now and then life says:
Where do you think you’re going so fast?
We’re apt to think it’s cruel, but sometimes
It’s a case of cruel to be kind

And if we get up off our knees
Why then we’d see the forest for the trees
and we’d see the new sun rising
Over the hills and horizon

There’s gold in them hills
There’s gold in them hills
So don’t lose faith
Give the world a chance to say:

A word or two, my friend
There’s no telling how the day might end
We’ll never know until we see

That there’s gold in them hills
There’s gold in them hills
So don’t lose heart
Give the day a chance to start

There’s gold in them hills
There’s gold in them hills

Honey and the moon – Joseph Arthur

Don’t know why I’m still afraid
If you weren’t real I would make you up
now
I wish that I could follow through
I know that your love is true
and deep
as the sea
but right now
everything you want is wrong,
and right now
all your dreams are waking up,
and right now
I wish I could follow you
to the shores
of freedom,
where no one lives.

Remember when we first met
and everything was still a bet
in love’s game
you would call; I’d call you back
and then I’d leave
a message
on your answering
machine

But right now
everything is turning blue,
and right now
the sun is trying to kill the moon,
and right now
I wish I could follow you
to the shores
of freedom,
where no one lives

Freedom
run away tonight
freedom, freedom
run away
run away tonight

We’re made out of blood and rust
looking for someone to trust
without
a fight
I think that you came too soon
you’re the honey and the moon
that lights
up my night

But right now
everything you want is wrong,
and right now
all your dreams are waking up,
and right now
I wish that I could follow you
to the shores
of freedom
where no one lives

freedom
run away tonight
freedom freedom
run away
run away tonight

we got too much time to kill
like pigeons on my windowsill
we hang around

ever since I’ve been with you
you hold me up
all the time I’m falling down

But right now
everything is turning blue,
and right now
the sun is trying to kill the moon,
and right now
i wish i could follow you
to the shores
of freedom
where no one lives

freedom
run away tonight
freedom freedom
run away
run away tonight

Famous friends along the coast – Joseph Arthur

You never knew your way back home
You lost yourself and began to drown inside a cage
With photographs and lights of glass
And memories of when your style was all the rage
Working in the diamond mines
The things you lost down the line come creeping back
And when you try to get some sleep
The spirit world has prepared its attack

You look in the mirror and see the eyes
No one can keep you realise you are a ghost
With famous friends along the coast
You dissolve but somehow still propose a toast
To victory to wings that fly through misery
Swallowing your alibi
To learning how not to try to figure out
Who you’ll be in the night

You’ve been here once before
You let the leper through the door and fell apart
He took from you your self respect
You were huge and then a speck of his heart
The darkness knew it’s ok to be like that
You got away and bought the shirt
And disappeared into make believe
So no one knew just how much you really hurt

Now they want you to mop the floor
To clean the blood that keeps on pouring from your head
But everything just fades to black
There ain’t no map and everyone you meet is dead
The crucifix, the hand grenade
Only you know which one is gonna save you
The dancing bones and faded bombs
Somehow you must know you’re gone and disappear

Brenda/Love for sale

Daar staat ze dan, alleen op de dansvloer. De tijd om naar huis te gaan lang voorbij. Op dit uur gaan alle nummers over haar. Over haar uitgelopen mascara en de ladder in haar kous. Geen stairway naar de zevende hemel. In het beste geval een short cut naar dat appartement waar ze straks weer eenzaam wakker wordt. De weg naar huis, die vindt ze wel. Alsof ze ergens anders naartoe kan. En eens ze de deur achter zich dichtslaat, zitten ze allemaal te wachten. Alle demonen, alle geesten uit een ver verleden. Bij wijze van teambuilding komen ze nog wat in haar hoofd muizen.

De schikgodinnen hebben dit verhaal al zovele keren geweven. Een eeuwenoud patroon dat in alle culturen herkend wordt. Haar spiegeltje, haar spiegeltje aan de wand heeft dit beeld al zo vaak te zien gekregen. Een massa mensen staart terug. Wie ze zou moeten zijn. Wie ze zou willen zijn. Wie ze zou kunnen zijn. Maar wie ze is, nee, die is niet in de massa te onderscheiden. Die wil ze ook niet zien. Te confronterend. Te ontgoochelend. Onherkenbaar geworden ondertussen. Te lang maskers gedragen, teveel make up, teveel face lifts. Om in de massa op te gaan. Om op te vallen.

Ze laat de kater uit en zoekt in de bergruimte iets eetbaars. Daar staan ze dan. Die twee grote blikken, helemaal weggedoken. Twee blikken die ze zo graag zou opentrekken en over iemand kieperen. Er iemand mee doordringen, er iemand in verdrinken. Het laagje stof en het vergeelde etiket drukken haar met de neus op de feiten. Heeft haar liefde een versheidsdatum? Ze weet enkel dat er geen conserveringsmiddelen of andere additieven inzitten. Nee, haar liefde is puur. Puur en ze staat te vervliegen in een stofferige hoek van haar bergruimte. En toch, toch moet iemand een blikopener hebben. Toch moet iemand ondergedompeld willen worden in deze nectar. Maar jij niet. Jij ook al niet.

My twentieth century

I woke up this morning,
Dreading the thoughts of another, dull and boring day.
Hey! Woe is me.
I go out on the streets, north side of the city
I see the steel, the fading rust
And the fields I used to play in…
My friends are famous and all my foes live happy
Loved by lycra, fooled by velcro
And fucked by what they need…

But who am I to criticise? My pointing finger backfires
I hang my head down low.

I once believed in Jesus,
Now I can’t believe in rock’n'roll
From baptism to alcohol, in a land suffocatingly green
Hey! The myth is magic, do you know what I mean?
The politics of sin and of sex
Suffer the fools, pawn our jewels, will it ever change?

But who am I criticise? I’ve made my bed, I lie on it
And hold my head up high

My disbelief, my fake redemption
My twentieth century
My holy war, my self indulgence
My twentieth century
My human flesh, my sad dependence
My twentieth century
My apathy, my big decision.
My twentieth century

Any lethal shore

If I was a blind man I’d
dress you all in white and
keep you in a white room
turn on the bright lights and
call you invisible, call you invincible
and I’d dream of white waves on a very lethal shore

if I was a sick man I’d
drink your bourbon and
drift into a blizzard or
any lethal storm and
emerge all windblown
cross-eyed and clothes torn
all just to see you on another lethal shore

If I was a strong man I’d
pull your curtains
down from the heavens, past
where the sky was born
kiss you in secret
right in your locket
and then I’d pull your house down like some very lethal storm

If I was a storm I’d
blow past your window
and linger in spirit
all around your face
and you’d never know, dear
the force that I bring
just to make your ears ring and keep you in a haze

If I was a bird I’d
orchestrate branches
into a chorus
only you would know
crash through your window
all just to see you
all just to meet you on another lethal shore