Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Jacob Groot

RELEASE ME, THE TIME HAS COME

Though you won’t reach the neighbours, they will reach
themselves through you via the hedge, and the border
between the houses is a membrane
that’s drumming on the walls. Because

on your way, arriving where you say
that the state of play is an exhibit,
stepping aside, the light
resembles a squatter, sentenced

to the breaking wheel, the stairs drop, till the house, too
big for you, doesn’t leave you but
surrounds you like an empty house, then you
aren’t lying but nudging someone else

awake in the chamber of sleep
to where the exam is waiting, entangled
with the table, to leaf through the pocket
with Stork* as its generic name

till Antonin Artaud breaks your ribs
inside it as the motor of Artaud
is the rotator of the mercury
in your mind when you, at the window

over the bare garden, lose all sense
of self as soon as you read him
aloud, for he prescribes you,
or he cuts you open to the bone

and takes the lid off the hell
you then get to see and he passes
it on: my hollow hole, my acrid hollow
hole, in which the red lice cycle

splatters to pieces, the cycle of the solar
red lice, cream-white in the arterial web
of 1 of the two. But why two? And which
one of the two?
Downstairs, Mummy and Daddy

are watching the tube. Are you allegedly in Mexico
with him though he doesn’t know you but he stutters
with his breath in your voice? The rug bleeds dry
on the floor around you till she stinks

because she eases and she soothes because
she sweats: caffre of piss
from the pit of a dry slit that chafes
when you stick it in, pissy camphor

from the mound of a dead slit
that strikes back when you break it open, and again
why two?
And whose? The man
who crosses himself (or crucifies?) and then bears the son

of the abuse with his own
hardened arse?
That must be it. Do you rave
in translation? Your throat does really
make the window steamy. Or don’t you know what

you’re reading anymore? Or are you falling into him? Or
sharing him? You hammer in the rhythm of Artaud
who roams through you. That beats much louder
than ‘The Wanderer’ and bland enough to go with that

‘The Peppermint Twist’ (‘Sealed with a Kiss’), the sickness
of lust, while smashing soulless rock the flame
breaks out which has ignited
the Saint Vitus dance in all the manikins

of the language they persist in passing off as
poetry in school. And this is, you are
certain (your mouth against the blinds
across the glass, the letters in your eyes

on the lilac air, full of the cloud
that flees across the damaged
reeds) no coquetry, at best
an escape, in a liturgy, from the factory

of the music of society to far-flung territory
which you can brush past by the hand
of the poète maudit imprisoned
inside. And he sees, as you already know, through

his big hollow eyes filled with oil from
on high, what you alone can guess at
to an extent however that does not amount
to fear and certainly not

to idiocy for more likely clear in late night
glow you will go, right through your head
loudly repeating his ji and cri, contracted to
ji-ji-cri-cri, deep into his rite

of the black sun, which in your case reads as
resurrection, for you will, on his behalf,
meet with whatever wishes to release you. So you will be
who your saviour is. But your lives will now be known as

industry

VERLOS ME, HET IS ZOVER

VERLOS ME, HET IS ZOVER

Al bereik je de buren niet, zij bereiken
zichzelf door jou via de heg, en de scheiding
tussen de huizen is een vlies
dat trommelt op de muren. Want dat je

gaande, gekomen waar je zegt
dat de stand van zaken een expositie
is, het veld ruimt, het licht
een kraker lijkt, veroordeeld

tot ledebraak, de trap neervalt tot het huis, je
te groot, je niet verlaat maar
als verlaten huis je omringt, dan lieg je
niet maar stoot een ander

wakker in de kamer van de slaap
om waar het proefwerk wacht, met de tafel
verward, te bladeren door de pocket
met de soortnaam Ooievaar

tot Antonin Artaud daarin je ribben
breekt omdat de motor
van Artaud is de rotator
van het kwik in je kop als je, voor het raam

boven de kale tuin, het begrip verliest
van het ik zodra je hem luidop
leest, want hij schrijft je
voor, of hij snijdt je open tot op het bot

en schroeft het deksel van de hel
die jij dan ziet en hij geeft
het door: m’n hol als gat, m’n wrange holle
gat, waarin de kringloop stuk spat

van de rooie luis, de kringloop van de rooie
zonneluis, roomblank in het aderlijke net
van 1 van de twee. Maar hoezo twee? En wie

van de twee? Pappa en mamma kijken beneden

tv. Ben je nou zogenaamd in Mexico met hem
die jou niet kent maar stamelt
met zijn adem in je stem? Droog bloedt
de mat op de vloer om je heen tot ze stinkt

omdat ze balsemt en ze zalft omdat
ze zweet: kaffer van pis
uit de put van een droge kut die schuurt
als je hem erin steekt, pissige kamfer

uit de schat van een dooie kut
die terugslaat als je hem openbreekt, en weer maar
waarom twee? Van wie? De man
die zich kruist (of kruisigt?) en dan bevalt van de zoon

uit de ontucht met zijn eigen
hard geworden reet?
Dat zal het zijn. Maal je
vertaald? Je keel beslaat wel degelijk
de ruit. Of weet je niet meer

wat je leest? Of daal je in hem af? Of deel je
hem? Je hamert in het ritme van Artaud
die door je doolt. Dat slaat veel harder
dan The Wandereren liflaf smaakt daarbij

The Peppermint Twist (Sealed with a Kiss), de wee
van lust, zo ramt de voor de loze
rock uitslaande vlam die heeft ontstoken
de sint-vitusdans in alle mannekino’s

van de taal die ze op school nog laten doorgaan
voor poëzie. En dit is, weet je
zeker (je mond tegen het valgordijn
over het glas, de letters in je ogen

op de lila lucht, vol van de wolk
die wegschiet boven het kapotte
riet) geen koketterie, hoogstens
een ontsnapping, in een liturgie, uit de fabriek

van de maatschappelijke muziek naar een buitengebied
waar je even langs mag strijken aan de hand
van de daarin gevangen
poète maudit. En die ziet, weet je al, door zijn grote

holle met de olie uit de hoge vol
gegoten ogen, wat jij alleen nog raden
kan maar in een mate die geen angst
behelst en helemaal geen

idioterie want eerder helder in de late
gloed stap je, dwars door je kop hard
op repeatzijn jien cri, samengetrokken tot
ji-ji-cri-cri, diep in zijn rite

van de zwarte zon, die luidt voor jou
verrijzenis omdat je, namens
hem, wat je verlossen wil ontmoet. Zo zal je zijn
wie je verlossing is. Maar jullie leven heet nu voortaan

industrie
Close

RELEASE ME, THE TIME HAS COME

Though you won’t reach the neighbours, they will reach
themselves through you via the hedge, and the border
between the houses is a membrane
that’s drumming on the walls. Because

on your way, arriving where you say
that the state of play is an exhibit,
stepping aside, the light
resembles a squatter, sentenced

to the breaking wheel, the stairs drop, till the house, too
big for you, doesn’t leave you but
surrounds you like an empty house, then you
aren’t lying but nudging someone else

awake in the chamber of sleep
to where the exam is waiting, entangled
with the table, to leaf through the pocket
with Stork* as its generic name

till Antonin Artaud breaks your ribs
inside it as the motor of Artaud
is the rotator of the mercury
in your mind when you, at the window

over the bare garden, lose all sense
of self as soon as you read him
aloud, for he prescribes you,
or he cuts you open to the bone

and takes the lid off the hell
you then get to see and he passes
it on: my hollow hole, my acrid hollow
hole, in which the red lice cycle

splatters to pieces, the cycle of the solar
red lice, cream-white in the arterial web
of 1 of the two. But why two? And which
one of the two?
Downstairs, Mummy and Daddy

are watching the tube. Are you allegedly in Mexico
with him though he doesn’t know you but he stutters
with his breath in your voice? The rug bleeds dry
on the floor around you till she stinks

because she eases and she soothes because
she sweats: caffre of piss
from the pit of a dry slit that chafes
when you stick it in, pissy camphor

from the mound of a dead slit
that strikes back when you break it open, and again
why two?
And whose? The man
who crosses himself (or crucifies?) and then bears the son

of the abuse with his own
hardened arse?
That must be it. Do you rave
in translation? Your throat does really
make the window steamy. Or don’t you know what

you’re reading anymore? Or are you falling into him? Or
sharing him? You hammer in the rhythm of Artaud
who roams through you. That beats much louder
than ‘The Wanderer’ and bland enough to go with that

‘The Peppermint Twist’ (‘Sealed with a Kiss’), the sickness
of lust, while smashing soulless rock the flame
breaks out which has ignited
the Saint Vitus dance in all the manikins

of the language they persist in passing off as
poetry in school. And this is, you are
certain (your mouth against the blinds
across the glass, the letters in your eyes

on the lilac air, full of the cloud
that flees across the damaged
reeds) no coquetry, at best
an escape, in a liturgy, from the factory

of the music of society to far-flung territory
which you can brush past by the hand
of the poète maudit imprisoned
inside. And he sees, as you already know, through

his big hollow eyes filled with oil from
on high, what you alone can guess at
to an extent however that does not amount
to fear and certainly not

to idiocy for more likely clear in late night
glow you will go, right through your head
loudly repeating his ji and cri, contracted to
ji-ji-cri-cri, deep into his rite

of the black sun, which in your case reads as
resurrection, for you will, on his behalf,
meet with whatever wishes to release you. So you will be
who your saviour is. But your lives will now be known as

industry

RELEASE ME, THE TIME HAS COME

Though you won’t reach the neighbours, they will reach
themselves through you via the hedge, and the border
between the houses is a membrane
that’s drumming on the walls. Because

on your way, arriving where you say
that the state of play is an exhibit,
stepping aside, the light
resembles a squatter, sentenced

to the breaking wheel, the stairs drop, till the house, too
big for you, doesn’t leave you but
surrounds you like an empty house, then you
aren’t lying but nudging someone else

awake in the chamber of sleep
to where the exam is waiting, entangled
with the table, to leaf through the pocket
with Stork* as its generic name

till Antonin Artaud breaks your ribs
inside it as the motor of Artaud
is the rotator of the mercury
in your mind when you, at the window

over the bare garden, lose all sense
of self as soon as you read him
aloud, for he prescribes you,
or he cuts you open to the bone

and takes the lid off the hell
you then get to see and he passes
it on: my hollow hole, my acrid hollow
hole, in which the red lice cycle

splatters to pieces, the cycle of the solar
red lice, cream-white in the arterial web
of 1 of the two. But why two? And which
one of the two?
Downstairs, Mummy and Daddy

are watching the tube. Are you allegedly in Mexico
with him though he doesn’t know you but he stutters
with his breath in your voice? The rug bleeds dry
on the floor around you till she stinks

because she eases and she soothes because
she sweats: caffre of piss
from the pit of a dry slit that chafes
when you stick it in, pissy camphor

from the mound of a dead slit
that strikes back when you break it open, and again
why two?
And whose? The man
who crosses himself (or crucifies?) and then bears the son

of the abuse with his own
hardened arse?
That must be it. Do you rave
in translation? Your throat does really
make the window steamy. Or don’t you know what

you’re reading anymore? Or are you falling into him? Or
sharing him? You hammer in the rhythm of Artaud
who roams through you. That beats much louder
than ‘The Wanderer’ and bland enough to go with that

‘The Peppermint Twist’ (‘Sealed with a Kiss’), the sickness
of lust, while smashing soulless rock the flame
breaks out which has ignited
the Saint Vitus dance in all the manikins

of the language they persist in passing off as
poetry in school. And this is, you are
certain (your mouth against the blinds
across the glass, the letters in your eyes

on the lilac air, full of the cloud
that flees across the damaged
reeds) no coquetry, at best
an escape, in a liturgy, from the factory

of the music of society to far-flung territory
which you can brush past by the hand
of the poète maudit imprisoned
inside. And he sees, as you already know, through

his big hollow eyes filled with oil from
on high, what you alone can guess at
to an extent however that does not amount
to fear and certainly not

to idiocy for more likely clear in late night
glow you will go, right through your head
loudly repeating his ji and cri, contracted to
ji-ji-cri-cri, deep into his rite

of the black sun, which in your case reads as
resurrection, for you will, on his behalf,
meet with whatever wishes to release you. So you will be
who your saviour is. But your lives will now be known as

industry
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
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