Prose for the beat generation

"But then they danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centrelight pop and everybody goes Awww!" - Jack Kerouac

Those are the ones, the only ones.

Poetry for the beat generation

There is no rhythm at all

In the platoons of this verse

Which sings about despair

In erroneous grammar.

No signs of that perilous

Indoctrination along

Highways crammed with

Attempts to transport

Oneself to places

Better than our own,

Justified but dumb

Not any less.

I will follow their trail

Soon in the afternoon

Of this aftermath

Of screaming confusion.

Garden parties look

Like my mind in winter

With flying hanging

Baskets, set on fire.

Now that I’ve finally

Seen you I cannot say

Whether I’m sure, unsure

Or simply confused

About being here,

Leaving from here

Or being there.

My face writes messages

That I cannot sustain.

Ironically I should

Stop speaking because,

Like drums that

Disappear from hearing

Distance,

My words are falling

Apart upon their

Writing.

Pas ici

Gewassen door de regen

drijf ik over de wegen,

bezeten, lachend,

totdat ik uiteindelijk aanspoel

en alles ben vergeten.

Brandend van verdriet

en het waterpeil ontstegen,

jouw prille liefdeslied

verborgen in m’n hart,

zo zorgvuldig verzwegen.

Met jaloerse woorden

die de duisternis verstoren

spreek ik, ben ik

door jouw stille eerbaarheid

verloren,

Vanavond,

gloeiend en doorweekt,

als minnaar van jouw ziel,

sterf ik slachtoffer van de regen.