23 April 5: 48 A.M. Holland (Monologues For Three Persons And A Book) Poem by Niko Tiliopoulos

This time my eyes saw what I did.
I stole this too, but nobody noticed.
I recalled Ginsberg telling me:

“Blessed be Death on us All! ”

It sounded funny,
but the dead didn’t laugh.

Her white legs were competing
which one would tease me the most.
I applied the t-distribution
on her body but she ignored me;
I could hurt her but I didn’t speak.

She looked at me:

“Robert Creeley is a splendid poet, don’t you think? ”

For thirty guilders
I would have sold my coat
to buy my soul.
Such a Christian irony!
I didn’t do it.

And then Saskia got angry:

“Don’t drink so much; it’s gonna do you wrong.”

Don’t be silly.
Only you can kill me.

“I’d love to go to Managua...” she mumbled,
“to help the fools...
but I don’t have enough even for ciggies.”

I stroke her hair...
My eyes stroke her breasts.

The flies must know
how much I hate them
every time they touch me.

I gazed at the clouds over Camiel’s back,
who was trying desperately,
for some time now,
to snort.

I think they’re gonna cry again.

He didn’t hear me.

Why does the sky hurt so much
in the land of the happy?

He smiled at me under his white nose:

“My cat, you see, is gay,
and mice don’t give in to him easily.
Anyway, if you ask me,
I’m touched by Tennyson.”

The horizon is on fire
and I am dancing
in memoriam with his flames
to a music joke for an alibi.

“Where are you now? ”

One hundred thousand waves away from Ibale.

Nobody understood.

But tell me,
who am I going to be,
when the moon is born
again?