Eros denied, The song judged irritable, The little mermaid hung out to dry, The refuted ideas strengthened For sheer cognitive dissonance, One finds religious beliefs lurking Behind open doors. Give me some! Wish eye could, Wish I mights, Wish there was a way To verbalize Objects, whirlwinds, epiphanies So that they That they. Matter, weighing, Mass, preying. With an a? With an e. So that they That they Beyond dispute, Questionable, but Irrefutable. Questionable in a non-fascist, Truly libertarian or anarchist Sense, giving the natured beast Or rather not being able Not to give the natured beast The needed degrees Of freedom To ask what it Must, and indeed, May, for Even the most reluctant Capitulation Will then occur Of its own accord. Fountains of blood! Squirting from leveled necks! Evidence, logic, the soundness of Arguments, none of this Is per se the hallmark of A decapitator Science, but or and We, necrophiliacs, like it. Wi luv et. Eros reclaimed, The little mermaid splashed, The song sung high And annoying and flying in the face, Louder even than ever Before In our lifetime. Such is the greatness of the Moment, this one now, A few seconds after A nonstop train whizzed by From north to south In dumbfound silence. Perhaps I didn’t sleeps well, Counted countries sampled or simply grown tired of, There is this ringing in the inner ear, A white noise that Makes life hard for the perceptual descriptors of Sounds, who Are compelled to raise their thresholds, Apply conservative criteria for the Dismissal of those null hypotheses, Claiming nothing’s there, A rather artificial way, eye admit, But nevertheless An efficient one For reaching the desired state Void of speech and other murmurs. A bit of insomnia Is the only answer To the deepest Dilemmas life throws at Dead men That cannot make themselves get up, And persist instead In trying to stare down The digital clock, have it Stay fixed at a Certain time, As it is Most of the time, As it would be All the time If it weren’t for these sudden quirks, These little jolts feeling good at first, But dragging along, tied to their tails, A heavy load of fear and panic In the realization That another minute Just has gone. How can it ever really be silent if Time doesn’t stop? That nonstop train must have spoken to us Somehow, even if we Didn’t hear it, We think so, yes, Two desires Converging on the same Impossible.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jan Lauwereyns (1969) was born and raised in Antwerp, Belgium. Trained as a neuroscientist, he has conducted research on the voluntary control of visual perception at top institutes in Belgium, Japan and U.S.A. In 2003 he moved to Wellington, where he teaches biological psychology at Victoria University. To date he has published four books of poetry, one novel and one book of essays in his native language, Dutch. In 2005 he decided to broaden his literary horizons, translating the works of several New Zealand poets into Dutch, and writing new work of his own in English as well as Dutch. He is currently working on a ‘Manifesto for Poetry with Forked Tongue’, to argue for the hidden riches of foreign accents.