I was young, I went

to experience grand beauty
on hands of success, and now
I walk on clouds

of electric light
glitter and admiration
celebrating my retirement

in the heaven of parties
star among the stars
the smiling beautiful people

their pearls, botultox and gel
in semi-gray hair, tireless
in time to the brass

Nobody needs to go to the toilet
we are hovering over the beds
in which despair tosses and turns

because of the days and the years
of dreamed lives, and we dance
the conga since we are going

nowhere

The gilded Buddha

has a gargantuan chest --


and a heart of stone.

A palette of paint to paint his face,
Clothes full of colours bright,
A round red nose that bobs like a ball,
He is ready with a smile.

Comic antics that delight folks,
He rides, slides, cartwheels and falls,
Slips on banana peels, juggles fruit,
Tickled faces all.

When night comes, off comes the paint,
The nose, the wig, the clothes bright,
In dwindling darkness he rests himself,
Now his face he hides.

A jester, he jested, he cheered —
A camouflage in art,
But to himself, alone and quiet,
He rests his aching heart.

An act extraordinaire —
Oh how he does beguile,
But to himself, now alone,
Who’ll make the jester smile?

In the hotel safe

are the counterfeit diamonds --


of the fake countess.

Appearances are an art, a few strokes
form out of paint, an intimate experience
of velvet, skin and sadness

There is no better job
than feeling proximity and depth
shamelessly direct, like in bed

Appearances are deceptive, my insolvency
is just a façade, like a name
given to you in ignorance

I no longer have debts
nor money, I earn nothing
and can work without worries

So let the pious people talk
I take care of Hendrickie
and Titus, everything is theirs

Don't people have to

be good, is it enough if --


they seem to be good?

I’m a dalmatian in the park this morning
leaping with a grace I can feel

a toddler by midday, splashing
unashamedly into gleeful puddles
red wellies into small pools of sky

a bird by the afternoon
giving the impression I may take flight
as I perch wise on the wall and
stretch my feathers
watching you

a fish by the time the evening is here
paper-light and shining
pretending I am not gasping for air
but I’m gasping
because I know night is coming

And the pretence
Should really be over in time for bed.

Common Ipocrites

are very active people –


helping who helps them.