Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Tom Lanoye

The siren song of songs in the #me2 era

“How can it be, oh sweetest of all sumptuous creatures,
that you still don’t have a love god as your cavalier. Worse:
that a man who can boast of your favour does exist,
but he has abandoned you here, alone and prey to the
shameless stares and vulgar chat-ups of anyone inclined to persist?”

“I’ve got a bloke, so don’t get fruity,
and keep those filthy mitts off my booty.”

“My dear, you are lying: where is he then, the lucky, despicable hound?
The deserter of your glorious banner, the Judas of your beauty,
the scoundrel who found you first and to him bound?”

“My fella is out buying coke and fags. And listen mate,
he’s six foot eight, he’s a surgeon and has a black belt in Kungfu.
If he catches wind of this, he’ll ram you into the ground and me too.”

“Don’t worry, my honeybee, my ivory statue: I won’t
tarnish your reputation, every wound I incur from you will serve
as an ornament. Except for this: avert your eyes, I beg of you,
because their torment stuns me more than uncut heroin.
With this difference: one can kick that habit. No methadone
has been found to beat the addictive power of your mouth - oh those lips!
They lure like a tender beartrap, bloody from frantic kissing.
Your teeth shine like a tender guillotine, seasoned with thyme and nicotine.
The curls that caress your forehead, neck and earlobes drive even
the blind to distraction, the dimples in your cheeks bring, and I quote, ‘the hanged
back to life’, their blush betrays how much you sigh and groan
in passion’s throes during every battle you wage in bed.”

“I don’t know what kind of shit you’ve taken and I
don’t get half of what you’re ranting on about,
but take my advice and fuck off before it’s too late.”

“Even if I had sixty empresses at my side, six hundred concubines and seven times
six thousand virgins in my harem: you would be my first, my last, my dove!
So pure that after your mother had birthed you, she had her womb sealed off.
You have to concede: the fairest dawn cannot compete with you,
the moon fades to naught, the sun shrivels and the sea burns,
you are mightier than the battalions of Alexander, Caesar and Napoleon!”

“Now that’s enough – I’m off to the loo and don’t even think
about following me or I’ll slap a speech defect into you.”

“Do it, Dove, hit me, kick me, Heavenly Tyrant - but stay! Please don’t
leave me! I’ll click my heels and bow to your command. Order me to do
anything you want, steal my belongings and my senses, break every bone
in my body, but don’t ask me to stop adoring you. Compared to you I am
no more than a tiny ant beside a redwood tree, and yet this insect,
this brute, this roach, would climb into the branches of your mast
and revel in the fruits which even the gods don’t dare make wine
from. Come back! Cool your anger, lower your guard, foreswear
your paranoia and face the truth. I am your salvation
just as you are mine. True freedom lies in captivity,
only its chains can be freely chosen. So come back and slip
your lead around my neck. I am your slave, your hellhound, your rag.
And you? My glorious prison, my Catherine wheel, my crown of thorns.”

“Jesus, are you still
here? Bugger off will you?”

“Alright then . . . But at least give me your number
so that I can call you sometime, day or night.”

tooglied in tijden van #me2

tooglied in tijden van #me2

                    ‘Hoe kan het, zoetste onder alle weelderige schepsels, 
                    dat u nog steeds geen liefdesgod tot knecht hebt? Erger: 
                    dat er wél een man bestaat die op uw gunst mag bogen, 
                    maar dat hij u hier achterlaat, alleen, ten prooi aan 
                    iedereens vulgaire sjans en onbeschaamde ogen?’

‘Ik heb een vent, ik dank u stijf, dus 
blijf nu met uw tengels van mijn lijf.’ 

                    ‘Mijn lief, u liegt: waar zit hij, die wraakroepende mazzelkont? 
                    De vaandelvluchtige van uw glans, de judas van uw schoonheid, 
                    de scandaleuze hond die u als eerste vond en aan hem bond?’

‘Mijn echtgenoot is coke en sigaretten kopen. Alsook
is hij twee meter vijf, chirurg en zwarte gordel in kungfu.
Als hij dit hoort of ziet ramt hij u in de grond, en mij erbij.’ 

                    ‘Geen nood, mijn honingbij, mijn elpenbenen monument: aan u 
                     laat ik geen averij geschieden, voor míj is elke wond om uwentwil 
                    een ornament. Tenzij dit ene: wend uw blikken af, ik smeek u, 
                    want hun foltering bedwelmt me meer dan onversneden heroïne. 
                    Met dit verschil: daarvan kan men ontwennen. Ook tegen de verslaving 
                    aan uw mond vond geen genie al methadon — ach, zie die lipjes toch! 
                    Ze lonken als een malse berenklem, bebloed van het verwoede kussen. 
                    Uw tanden glanzen als een tedere guillotine, gekruid met tijm en nicotine. 
                    De krullen die uw voorhoofd, nek en lellen strelen maken zelfs de blinden 
                    knettergek, de kuiltjes in uw wangen brengen, ik citeer, “gehangenen 
                    tot leven”, hun schaamrood doet vermoeden hoezeer u zucht- en kreunen 
                    kunt wanneer u goed verhit van jetje geeft bij elke veldslag in uw bed.’

‘Ik weet niet wat voor spul u hebt geslikt en ik 
versta nog niet de helft van wat u staat te brullen, 
maar volg mijn raad en flikker op voor het te laat is.’ 

                    ‘Al had ik zestig keizerinnen aan mijn zij, zeshonderd concubines en als 
                    harem zeven keer zesduizend maagden: you are my first, my last, mijn Duifje!
                    Zo zuiver dat uw moeder, eens van u bevallen, haar schoot heeft laten sluiten.
                    Geef het mens eens ongelijk: de schoonste dageraad verliest van u het pleit,
                    de maan valt in het niet, de zon verschrompelt en de zee verbrandt,
                    uw macht verslaat de bataljons van Alexander, Caesar én Napoleon!’

‘Zo is het wel genoeg geweest — ik ga naar het toilet en heb 
het lef niet mij te volgen of ik mep u zelf een spraakgebrek.’

                    ‘Doe het, Duifje, sla dan, trap me, Hemelse Tiran — maar blijf! Verlaat
                    me niet! Ik sta paraat en buig mij voor uw heerschappij. Beveel me wat 
                    u wilt, besteel me van mijn boedel en mijn zinnen, kraak ieder bot van 
                    mijn karkas, maar vraag niet dat ik stop u te beminnen. Naast u ben ik
                    niet meer dan maar een mier naast een sequoia, en toch wil dit insect, 
                    dit ondier, deze kakkerlak, de takken van uw mast beklimmen om 
                    te zwelgen in de vruchten waarvan de goden zelfs geen wijn durven 
                    bestellen. Kom terug! Bekoel uw woede, laat uw hoede zakken, zweer 
                    uw paranoia af en zie de waarheid onder ogen. Ik ben uw redding 
                    zoals u de mijne bent. De ware vrijheid ligt in de gevangenschap, 
                    alleen zijn ketens kan men onbelemmerd kiezen. Keer dus weer
                    en leg mij aan uw lijn. Ik ben uw slaaf, uw hellehond, uw dweil.
                    En u? Mijn glorieuze cel, mijn martelrad, mijn doornenkroon.’

‘My god, u bent nog 
altijd hier? Rot op!’

                    ‘Oké, dan... Maar geef mij minstens uw gegevens 
                    zodat ik u, ’t zij dag of nacht, een keer kan bellen.’
Close

The siren song of songs in the #me2 era

“How can it be, oh sweetest of all sumptuous creatures,
that you still don’t have a love god as your cavalier. Worse:
that a man who can boast of your favour does exist,
but he has abandoned you here, alone and prey to the
shameless stares and vulgar chat-ups of anyone inclined to persist?”

“I’ve got a bloke, so don’t get fruity,
and keep those filthy mitts off my booty.”

“My dear, you are lying: where is he then, the lucky, despicable hound?
The deserter of your glorious banner, the Judas of your beauty,
the scoundrel who found you first and to him bound?”

“My fella is out buying coke and fags. And listen mate,
he’s six foot eight, he’s a surgeon and has a black belt in Kungfu.
If he catches wind of this, he’ll ram you into the ground and me too.”

“Don’t worry, my honeybee, my ivory statue: I won’t
tarnish your reputation, every wound I incur from you will serve
as an ornament. Except for this: avert your eyes, I beg of you,
because their torment stuns me more than uncut heroin.
With this difference: one can kick that habit. No methadone
has been found to beat the addictive power of your mouth - oh those lips!
They lure like a tender beartrap, bloody from frantic kissing.
Your teeth shine like a tender guillotine, seasoned with thyme and nicotine.
The curls that caress your forehead, neck and earlobes drive even
the blind to distraction, the dimples in your cheeks bring, and I quote, ‘the hanged
back to life’, their blush betrays how much you sigh and groan
in passion’s throes during every battle you wage in bed.”

“I don’t know what kind of shit you’ve taken and I
don’t get half of what you’re ranting on about,
but take my advice and fuck off before it’s too late.”

“Even if I had sixty empresses at my side, six hundred concubines and seven times
six thousand virgins in my harem: you would be my first, my last, my dove!
So pure that after your mother had birthed you, she had her womb sealed off.
You have to concede: the fairest dawn cannot compete with you,
the moon fades to naught, the sun shrivels and the sea burns,
you are mightier than the battalions of Alexander, Caesar and Napoleon!”

“Now that’s enough – I’m off to the loo and don’t even think
about following me or I’ll slap a speech defect into you.”

“Do it, Dove, hit me, kick me, Heavenly Tyrant - but stay! Please don’t
leave me! I’ll click my heels and bow to your command. Order me to do
anything you want, steal my belongings and my senses, break every bone
in my body, but don’t ask me to stop adoring you. Compared to you I am
no more than a tiny ant beside a redwood tree, and yet this insect,
this brute, this roach, would climb into the branches of your mast
and revel in the fruits which even the gods don’t dare make wine
from. Come back! Cool your anger, lower your guard, foreswear
your paranoia and face the truth. I am your salvation
just as you are mine. True freedom lies in captivity,
only its chains can be freely chosen. So come back and slip
your lead around my neck. I am your slave, your hellhound, your rag.
And you? My glorious prison, my Catherine wheel, my crown of thorns.”

“Jesus, are you still
here? Bugger off will you?”

“Alright then . . . But at least give me your number
so that I can call you sometime, day or night.”

The siren song of songs in the #me2 era

“How can it be, oh sweetest of all sumptuous creatures,
that you still don’t have a love god as your cavalier. Worse:
that a man who can boast of your favour does exist,
but he has abandoned you here, alone and prey to the
shameless stares and vulgar chat-ups of anyone inclined to persist?”

“I’ve got a bloke, so don’t get fruity,
and keep those filthy mitts off my booty.”

“My dear, you are lying: where is he then, the lucky, despicable hound?
The deserter of your glorious banner, the Judas of your beauty,
the scoundrel who found you first and to him bound?”

“My fella is out buying coke and fags. And listen mate,
he’s six foot eight, he’s a surgeon and has a black belt in Kungfu.
If he catches wind of this, he’ll ram you into the ground and me too.”

“Don’t worry, my honeybee, my ivory statue: I won’t
tarnish your reputation, every wound I incur from you will serve
as an ornament. Except for this: avert your eyes, I beg of you,
because their torment stuns me more than uncut heroin.
With this difference: one can kick that habit. No methadone
has been found to beat the addictive power of your mouth - oh those lips!
They lure like a tender beartrap, bloody from frantic kissing.
Your teeth shine like a tender guillotine, seasoned with thyme and nicotine.
The curls that caress your forehead, neck and earlobes drive even
the blind to distraction, the dimples in your cheeks bring, and I quote, ‘the hanged
back to life’, their blush betrays how much you sigh and groan
in passion’s throes during every battle you wage in bed.”

“I don’t know what kind of shit you’ve taken and I
don’t get half of what you’re ranting on about,
but take my advice and fuck off before it’s too late.”

“Even if I had sixty empresses at my side, six hundred concubines and seven times
six thousand virgins in my harem: you would be my first, my last, my dove!
So pure that after your mother had birthed you, she had her womb sealed off.
You have to concede: the fairest dawn cannot compete with you,
the moon fades to naught, the sun shrivels and the sea burns,
you are mightier than the battalions of Alexander, Caesar and Napoleon!”

“Now that’s enough – I’m off to the loo and don’t even think
about following me or I’ll slap a speech defect into you.”

“Do it, Dove, hit me, kick me, Heavenly Tyrant - but stay! Please don’t
leave me! I’ll click my heels and bow to your command. Order me to do
anything you want, steal my belongings and my senses, break every bone
in my body, but don’t ask me to stop adoring you. Compared to you I am
no more than a tiny ant beside a redwood tree, and yet this insect,
this brute, this roach, would climb into the branches of your mast
and revel in the fruits which even the gods don’t dare make wine
from. Come back! Cool your anger, lower your guard, foreswear
your paranoia and face the truth. I am your salvation
just as you are mine. True freedom lies in captivity,
only its chains can be freely chosen. So come back and slip
your lead around my neck. I am your slave, your hellhound, your rag.
And you? My glorious prison, my Catherine wheel, my crown of thorns.”

“Jesus, are you still
here? Bugger off will you?”

“Alright then . . . But at least give me your number
so that I can call you sometime, day or night.”
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