I had to walk in a thunderstorm
With my leaden boots
And copper flask of blessed Belgian water
At my hip.
Turning out for the supermarket
Because the milk had turned
Sour, from the thunderous heat inside the refrigerator.
I had clearly forgotten
What I promised to cook
For the evening meal and, therefore,
Was unable to prepare
An adequate shopping list.
I thought “Perhaps if I go
And stare at the laden shelves
Inspiration will deliver me a menu or
A label will jog my memory.
Of course, I might get
Struck by lightning on the way over to the shops
And then this poem will be considered
Blessed with profound insight etcetera.”
I was struck by lightening
This poem is the result.
We ate simply.
NO MANS LAND.
How much of what happens passes you by?
All of it, I am not suspended in the time I am suspended in by any means.
None of it, I see every one of doubts cast glances, and the give away gesture never escapes me.
No-mans-land and the space between dormitories. The life led to the life to live. The concrete and grass verge conflict. The grass made slippery by the morning due. The leather well dodged. The chauvinism of cannoniers. The listening silence of the counter-miner, and all of that net op tijd. Boom!
The countless lines mulled over and forgotten. The best best forgotten, forgotten anyway.
How many lines? No lines at all. How many lines? No lines at all.
I used to plod around in the darkness, now I plod in the light.
Yesterday I wrote a poem
So bad I’m mortified!
Though too ashamed to go back and open the file
I have kept it
And have made it ‘read only’,
As a potent reminder of fallibility
In these days
Without synaptic lapse
And level diagnostics detecting
Sensors are functioning optimally.