Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Jacob Groot

LOCAL UNIVERSE

In us lies preserved what perished, to me the task
(an end) of sticking it to the wall like a ring
around the fleshy finger of the means. Hell, appointed
over me, heaven, pinned to my chest, wild times

in bed, my side her beast, bare wonder, brimming dick
aboard I am in local universe, like crystal my room
shatters and full fathom five Walhalla spins in the
ditches, that’s quite a start and circulation yields the look

metallic, varnish the miroir, an alloy of the other as
a salve and myself in the shape of an army, arrested
by my breath. Keep brushing, babe. Where I nest I boozed,
my hope evaporated as rot struts astronomically

now I miss, like the winnower the ear, the heel in my rear &
the orchard scatters, graciously by hand, the shambles
full of tulips for Japan, in the sun that the rice has promised
my hole. In this cosmos I cannot sleep, my ear keeps me

to the ground on the loose ball, I clock the coma
of the coming, commands between psalms,
the unblemished temptation, till her milk has to
becalm me, to stay tied to her apron strings. O

Northern Crown, blow the blood out of orbit of the course
that benumbs me, Serpent Bearer, Big Dipper, shoot me
deeper till I can descend, in the hurricane force of the corn,
to the windmills of my mind that grind me in the polders

LOKAAL HEELAL

LOKAAL HEELAL

In ons is bewaard wat verging, aan mij de taak
(een doel) het te prikken aan de wand als een ring
om de dikke vinger van het middel. Hel, boven me
gesteld, hemel, op m’n borst gespeld, dolle pret

in bed, m’n zij haar dier, baar wonder, volle lul
aan boord ben ik in lokaal heelal, als kristal breekt
m’n kamer en vijf vadem diep tolt walhalla in de
sloten, dat is pas starten en doorstroom levert de blik

metalliek, glazuur de miroir, een legering van de ander
als zalf en mezelf in de vorm van een leger, bezet
door m’n adem. Poets door, pop. Waar ik honk zoop
ik, vervloog m’n hoop pronkt sterrenkundig rotting

nu ik mis, als de wanner de aar, de laars in m’n aars &
de gaarde strooit, gracieus met de hand, de janboel
bomvol tulpen voor Japan, in de zon die de rijst belooft
voor m’n hol. In deze kosmos slaap ik niet, m’n oor

legt me te luisteren op de losse bol, ik klok de coma
van de komende, commando’s tussen psalmen
door, het onbevlekte lokken, tot haar melk me moet
verkalmen, om aan haar rok te blijven hangen. O

Noorderkroon, blaas het bloed uit de baan van de loop
die me verdooft, Slangendrager, Hellewagen, schiet me
dieper tot ik kan dalen, in de orkaankracht van het graan,
naar de klap van de molen op de polders die me vermalen
Close

LOCAL UNIVERSE

In us lies preserved what perished, to me the task
(an end) of sticking it to the wall like a ring
around the fleshy finger of the means. Hell, appointed
over me, heaven, pinned to my chest, wild times

in bed, my side her beast, bare wonder, brimming dick
aboard I am in local universe, like crystal my room
shatters and full fathom five Walhalla spins in the
ditches, that’s quite a start and circulation yields the look

metallic, varnish the miroir, an alloy of the other as
a salve and myself in the shape of an army, arrested
by my breath. Keep brushing, babe. Where I nest I boozed,
my hope evaporated as rot struts astronomically

now I miss, like the winnower the ear, the heel in my rear &
the orchard scatters, graciously by hand, the shambles
full of tulips for Japan, in the sun that the rice has promised
my hole. In this cosmos I cannot sleep, my ear keeps me

to the ground on the loose ball, I clock the coma
of the coming, commands between psalms,
the unblemished temptation, till her milk has to
becalm me, to stay tied to her apron strings. O

Northern Crown, blow the blood out of orbit of the course
that benumbs me, Serpent Bearer, Big Dipper, shoot me
deeper till I can descend, in the hurricane force of the corn,
to the windmills of my mind that grind me in the polders

LOCAL UNIVERSE

In us lies preserved what perished, to me the task
(an end) of sticking it to the wall like a ring
around the fleshy finger of the means. Hell, appointed
over me, heaven, pinned to my chest, wild times

in bed, my side her beast, bare wonder, brimming dick
aboard I am in local universe, like crystal my room
shatters and full fathom five Walhalla spins in the
ditches, that’s quite a start and circulation yields the look

metallic, varnish the miroir, an alloy of the other as
a salve and myself in the shape of an army, arrested
by my breath. Keep brushing, babe. Where I nest I boozed,
my hope evaporated as rot struts astronomically

now I miss, like the winnower the ear, the heel in my rear &
the orchard scatters, graciously by hand, the shambles
full of tulips for Japan, in the sun that the rice has promised
my hole. In this cosmos I cannot sleep, my ear keeps me

to the ground on the loose ball, I clock the coma
of the coming, commands between psalms,
the unblemished temptation, till her milk has to
becalm me, to stay tied to her apron strings. O

Northern Crown, blow the blood out of orbit of the course
that benumbs me, Serpent Bearer, Big Dipper, shoot me
deeper till I can descend, in the hurricane force of the corn,
to the windmills of my mind that grind me in the polders
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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