Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Marc Kregting

CONCERNING ETIQUETTE

Countless jostled in front of the window in order of letdown. Yet still dead birdie’s umpteenth mother, throwing her shoulders back, exclaimed that rancour was out of step. They had said that the fields were covered in wondrous white. Decorum called for no more tending than that of a quick vivacious glance that didn’t involve a cowl muscle. ‘That’s set in stone as you know full well.’ Dead birdie saw salty mountains of stone, which it had already let slip. In other words, rancour wasn’t chic, brought about haphazard plasma-flows; one shouldn’t minister naked ganglion. And under no circumstance should one bare one’s teeth but prick up one’s feather and even then only to waft them in compassionate company. Oh Saint Apollonia, in its hands dead birdie blew molars chlorosis straight into reprimands (he who bares his deepest innermost uninvited becomes poseur). But hang on, it thought, he who never admits blame is just as unlikely to apologise: highest attainable is the perforatable excuse me. It was in a shop selling second-hand computers to be transmuted into vegan burgers. Dead birdie was once again juggling the lubricating oil, while it received dyed-in-the-wool messages from its fillings. Onwards it wanted, onwards.

For a good stability pact dead birdie had to be honey bun, making headway with a slumbering political cold. Extremely cold that it scolds itself and brings great joy onto itself. Winners are impervious to pain, wishing anything else on them is mean, the flower narcissus. Or intelligibly undesired and then failing to own up to it. Put up with it? It isn’t smart to say you are smart. It is stupid though to say you are stupid.

Before it was finished. Like a wafer around a closely folded letter, the nets fit tightly round its belly that otherwise would not brown. The radiation of the agate sun, especially that captured by the impeccable steppes, shouldn’t be underestimated. It would be equally ignominious, dead birdie chides itself to the benefit of the common good and for security reasons it excommunicates it. But it will out where it can’t and is that a miracle? ‘When your eyes spot something disagreeable you quickly cover them with your hands or you close them. But try covering your thoughts with your hands, or try closing your thoughts down,’ Charlotte Mutsaers wrote. What would actually happen in the event of dead birdie being treated according to the same criteria as with which it treated its autres? Was it the billy goat with the orthopaedic shoes? It listens to music. Honking horns and accidents invariably coincide rhythmically perfect. Dead birdie still wants to fry a minced steak so it can dip a slice of bread in the gravy. And finally following a price adjustment it was let out. Snowmen were built, fields raped by grass – that could bite.

VAN DE ETIQUETTE

VAN DE ETIQUETTE

Voor de ruit verdrongen zich tallozen in volgorde van afgang. Toch moest dood vogeltjes zoveelste moeder eerst even melden, de schouders naar achteren werpend, dat rancune geen pas gaf. Ze hadden gezegd dat de velden vol wonderbaarlijk wit lagen. Fatsoen behelsde geen ander omkijken dan dat van de montere blik waaraan geen monnikskapspier te pas kwam. ‘Dat ligt vast en dat weet je maar al te goed.’ Dood vogeltje zag zoute bergen van steen die het al had laten gaan. Anders uitgedrukt, rancune was niet chic, leidde tot ongerichte plasmastroming; men diende geen zenuwknoop bloot. Men moest überhaupt nooit zijn tanden laten zien maar de veren opsteken en die slechts in goedertieren gezelschap laten hangen. O Sint-Apollonia, in hets handen bliezen dood vogeltjes kiezen bleekzucht, de terechtwijzingen in (wie ongevraagd zijn diepste zielenroerselen openlegt wordt een poseur). Maar wacht even, dacht het, wie nooit ongelijk bekent zal evenmin zijn excuses aanbieden: hoogst bereikbaar is het perforeerbare neem me niet kwalijk. Het was in een winkel in tweedehands computers, om om te smelten tot vegaburgers. Dood vogeltje jongleerde alweer met de kruipolie, terwijl het doorgewinterde berichten kreeg uit hets vullingen. Door wilde het, door.

Voor een goed stabiliteitspact moest dood vogeltje honnepon zijn, opschietend met een sluimerende politieke verkoudheid. Zeer koud is het dat het verbrandt en hetzelf tot grote blijdschap stemt. Winnaars hebben geen pijn, hun iets anders toewensen is laag, de bloem narcis. Of intelligibel ongewenst en dat dan niet opbiechten. Inslikken? Het is niet slim om te zeggen dat je slim bent. Het is wel dom om te zeggen dat je dom bent.

Voor het af was. Als een ouwel om een toegevouwen brief spannen de netten om hets buikje dat anders niet te bruinen is. Van de agaten zon, zeker gevangen door de onberispelijke steppen, mocht de straling niet worden onderschat. Het zou tevens infaam zijn, berispt dood vogeltje hetzelf tot het nut van het algemeen en voor de veiligheid excommuniceert het het. Maar het vloeit waar het niet gaan kan en is dat een mirakel? ‘Als je ogen iets onaangenaams zien sla je gauw je handen ervoor of doe je ze dicht. Maar sla jij je handen maar eens voor je gedachten, doe jij je gedachten maar eens dicht,’ schreef Charlotte Mutsaers. Hoe zou het eigenlijk zijn indien dood vogeltje met dezelfde maatstaven bejegend werd als die waarmee het hets autres bejegent? Was het de bok met de orthopedische schoenen? Het beluistert muziek. Claxons en ongelukken vallen steevast ritmisch perfect. Ook wil dood vogeltje een tartaartje bakken om een boterham door de jus te kunnen halen. En eindelijk mocht het er bij prijsaanpassing uit. Poppen werden gerold, velden aangerand door gras – dat kon bijten.
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CONCERNING ETIQUETTE

Countless jostled in front of the window in order of letdown. Yet still dead birdie’s umpteenth mother, throwing her shoulders back, exclaimed that rancour was out of step. They had said that the fields were covered in wondrous white. Decorum called for no more tending than that of a quick vivacious glance that didn’t involve a cowl muscle. ‘That’s set in stone as you know full well.’ Dead birdie saw salty mountains of stone, which it had already let slip. In other words, rancour wasn’t chic, brought about haphazard plasma-flows; one shouldn’t minister naked ganglion. And under no circumstance should one bare one’s teeth but prick up one’s feather and even then only to waft them in compassionate company. Oh Saint Apollonia, in its hands dead birdie blew molars chlorosis straight into reprimands (he who bares his deepest innermost uninvited becomes poseur). But hang on, it thought, he who never admits blame is just as unlikely to apologise: highest attainable is the perforatable excuse me. It was in a shop selling second-hand computers to be transmuted into vegan burgers. Dead birdie was once again juggling the lubricating oil, while it received dyed-in-the-wool messages from its fillings. Onwards it wanted, onwards.

For a good stability pact dead birdie had to be honey bun, making headway with a slumbering political cold. Extremely cold that it scolds itself and brings great joy onto itself. Winners are impervious to pain, wishing anything else on them is mean, the flower narcissus. Or intelligibly undesired and then failing to own up to it. Put up with it? It isn’t smart to say you are smart. It is stupid though to say you are stupid.

Before it was finished. Like a wafer around a closely folded letter, the nets fit tightly round its belly that otherwise would not brown. The radiation of the agate sun, especially that captured by the impeccable steppes, shouldn’t be underestimated. It would be equally ignominious, dead birdie chides itself to the benefit of the common good and for security reasons it excommunicates it. But it will out where it can’t and is that a miracle? ‘When your eyes spot something disagreeable you quickly cover them with your hands or you close them. But try covering your thoughts with your hands, or try closing your thoughts down,’ Charlotte Mutsaers wrote. What would actually happen in the event of dead birdie being treated according to the same criteria as with which it treated its autres? Was it the billy goat with the orthopaedic shoes? It listens to music. Honking horns and accidents invariably coincide rhythmically perfect. Dead birdie still wants to fry a minced steak so it can dip a slice of bread in the gravy. And finally following a price adjustment it was let out. Snowmen were built, fields raped by grass – that could bite.

CONCERNING ETIQUETTE

Countless jostled in front of the window in order of letdown. Yet still dead birdie’s umpteenth mother, throwing her shoulders back, exclaimed that rancour was out of step. They had said that the fields were covered in wondrous white. Decorum called for no more tending than that of a quick vivacious glance that didn’t involve a cowl muscle. ‘That’s set in stone as you know full well.’ Dead birdie saw salty mountains of stone, which it had already let slip. In other words, rancour wasn’t chic, brought about haphazard plasma-flows; one shouldn’t minister naked ganglion. And under no circumstance should one bare one’s teeth but prick up one’s feather and even then only to waft them in compassionate company. Oh Saint Apollonia, in its hands dead birdie blew molars chlorosis straight into reprimands (he who bares his deepest innermost uninvited becomes poseur). But hang on, it thought, he who never admits blame is just as unlikely to apologise: highest attainable is the perforatable excuse me. It was in a shop selling second-hand computers to be transmuted into vegan burgers. Dead birdie was once again juggling the lubricating oil, while it received dyed-in-the-wool messages from its fillings. Onwards it wanted, onwards.

For a good stability pact dead birdie had to be honey bun, making headway with a slumbering political cold. Extremely cold that it scolds itself and brings great joy onto itself. Winners are impervious to pain, wishing anything else on them is mean, the flower narcissus. Or intelligibly undesired and then failing to own up to it. Put up with it? It isn’t smart to say you are smart. It is stupid though to say you are stupid.

Before it was finished. Like a wafer around a closely folded letter, the nets fit tightly round its belly that otherwise would not brown. The radiation of the agate sun, especially that captured by the impeccable steppes, shouldn’t be underestimated. It would be equally ignominious, dead birdie chides itself to the benefit of the common good and for security reasons it excommunicates it. But it will out where it can’t and is that a miracle? ‘When your eyes spot something disagreeable you quickly cover them with your hands or you close them. But try covering your thoughts with your hands, or try closing your thoughts down,’ Charlotte Mutsaers wrote. What would actually happen in the event of dead birdie being treated according to the same criteria as with which it treated its autres? Was it the billy goat with the orthopaedic shoes? It listens to music. Honking horns and accidents invariably coincide rhythmically perfect. Dead birdie still wants to fry a minced steak so it can dip a slice of bread in the gravy. And finally following a price adjustment it was let out. Snowmen were built, fields raped by grass – that could bite.
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