Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Simone Atangana Bekono

III

I wrote a poem about myself
I wrote five versions of myself that were male,
broken, disembodied and confused
I wrote myself into the hell of being an artist and left me there to rot
I wrote beyond myself and came up with a lot of empty words

That the moment of ignition makes or breaks all memories
that context mustn’t be added, but has to arise by itself
that I put my father’s urn in the fuse box when he slapped my wrist
for my dubious breasts and strange way of carrying myself
that I only exist as a projection of the brain of a white Western male:
I borrow money from a white Western male
I buy toilet paper for a white Western male
I am the white Western male’s thought experiment

I am lying drunk on a floor and he asks who I am
and I am a version of Kunta Kinte forced into a mould
I feel no bond with my given name

I lie on the floor drunk and see patterns on the ceiling
the boy on the floor next to me is a child I want to acquaint
with my darkest thoughts
to destroy him
to educate him
I am an apelike jazz musician’s doll
I am Sylvana, Louwiya,
an enormous bum people pay money to stare at
I can present myself in hundreds of forms

I am a cool afterthought, a drum kit, I am a religious fanatic
with yellow eyeballs and a hoarse-screamed mouth, I am a court jester:
I put on a dress, I put on a flesh-coloured dress
and I am one hundred and fifty pounds of flesh without a name, language or country of origin
a nail-chewing collapsing bleeding anonymous entity
without a concrete goal
all energy and no purpose
I do have a good report
well done well brought up

I am a virus that eats itself due to a lack of matter to feed on
I am the most flesh-coloured dress you can wear
a daring choice
and oiled on a snow-white beach
standing among those hundreds of versions of myself
I ask, Are we already on holiday?
I get no answer

III

III

Ik schreef een gedicht dat over mezelf ging
ik schreef vijf versies van mezelf die mannelijk,
gebroken, lichaamloos en in de war waren
ik schreef mezelf in de hel van het kunstenaarschap en liet mij daarin wegrotten
ik schreef mezelf compleet weg en kwam tot een hoop lege woorden

Dat elke herinnering valt of staat bij het moment van ontsteking
dat context niet toegevoegd mag worden, maar vanzelf moet ontstaan
dat ik mijn vaders urn in de stoppenkast heb gezet toen hij mij op de vingers tikte
voor mijn onherleidbare motoriek en twijfelachtige borsten
dat ik alleen besta in het verlengde van het brein van een blanke, westerse man:
ik leen geld van een blanke, westerse man
ik koop toiletpapier voor een blanke, westerse man:
ik ben een gedachte-experiment van de blanke, westerse man

Want ik lig dronken op een vloer en hij vraagt wie ik ben
en ik ben een in een mal gepropte versie van Kunta Kinte
ik voel geen verbintenis met mijn gegeven naam

Ik lig dronken op een vloer en zie patronen in het plafond
de jongen naast mij is een kind dat ik kennis wil laten maken
met mijn donkerste gedachten
om hem kapot te maken
om hem op te voeden
ik ben het poppetje van een aapachtige jazzmuzikant
ik ben Sylvana, Loewija
een enorme kont waar mensen geld voor betalen om naar te staren
ik kan mezelf in honderden vormen presenteren

Ik ben een coole toevoeging, een drumstel, ik ben een godsdienstfanaat
met gele oogballen en een kapotgeschreeuwde mond,
ik ben een hofnar: ik trek een jurk aan, trek een huidkleurige jurk aan
ben zeventig kilogram vlees zonder naam, taal of herkomst
een nagelbijtende in elkaar stortende bloedende entiteit zonder concreet doel
all energy and no purpose
ik heb wel een goed rapport
goed gedaan en goed opgevoed

Ik ben een virus dat zichzelf opeet bij gebrek aan materie om zich mee te voeden
ik ben de meest huidkleurige jurk die je aan kunt trekken
een gewaagde keuze
en terwijl ik geolied op een hagelwit strand sta
tussen die honderden versies van mijzelf
vraag ik: ‘Zijn we al op vakantie?’
ik krijg geen antwoord
Close

III

I wrote a poem about myself
I wrote five versions of myself that were male,
broken, disembodied and confused
I wrote myself into the hell of being an artist and left me there to rot
I wrote beyond myself and came up with a lot of empty words

That the moment of ignition makes or breaks all memories
that context mustn’t be added, but has to arise by itself
that I put my father’s urn in the fuse box when he slapped my wrist
for my dubious breasts and strange way of carrying myself
that I only exist as a projection of the brain of a white Western male:
I borrow money from a white Western male
I buy toilet paper for a white Western male
I am the white Western male’s thought experiment

I am lying drunk on a floor and he asks who I am
and I am a version of Kunta Kinte forced into a mould
I feel no bond with my given name

I lie on the floor drunk and see patterns on the ceiling
the boy on the floor next to me is a child I want to acquaint
with my darkest thoughts
to destroy him
to educate him
I am an apelike jazz musician’s doll
I am Sylvana, Louwiya,
an enormous bum people pay money to stare at
I can present myself in hundreds of forms

I am a cool afterthought, a drum kit, I am a religious fanatic
with yellow eyeballs and a hoarse-screamed mouth, I am a court jester:
I put on a dress, I put on a flesh-coloured dress
and I am one hundred and fifty pounds of flesh without a name, language or country of origin
a nail-chewing collapsing bleeding anonymous entity
without a concrete goal
all energy and no purpose
I do have a good report
well done well brought up

I am a virus that eats itself due to a lack of matter to feed on
I am the most flesh-coloured dress you can wear
a daring choice
and oiled on a snow-white beach
standing among those hundreds of versions of myself
I ask, Are we already on holiday?
I get no answer

III

I wrote a poem about myself
I wrote five versions of myself that were male,
broken, disembodied and confused
I wrote myself into the hell of being an artist and left me there to rot
I wrote beyond myself and came up with a lot of empty words

That the moment of ignition makes or breaks all memories
that context mustn’t be added, but has to arise by itself
that I put my father’s urn in the fuse box when he slapped my wrist
for my dubious breasts and strange way of carrying myself
that I only exist as a projection of the brain of a white Western male:
I borrow money from a white Western male
I buy toilet paper for a white Western male
I am the white Western male’s thought experiment

I am lying drunk on a floor and he asks who I am
and I am a version of Kunta Kinte forced into a mould
I feel no bond with my given name

I lie on the floor drunk and see patterns on the ceiling
the boy on the floor next to me is a child I want to acquaint
with my darkest thoughts
to destroy him
to educate him
I am an apelike jazz musician’s doll
I am Sylvana, Louwiya,
an enormous bum people pay money to stare at
I can present myself in hundreds of forms

I am a cool afterthought, a drum kit, I am a religious fanatic
with yellow eyeballs and a hoarse-screamed mouth, I am a court jester:
I put on a dress, I put on a flesh-coloured dress
and I am one hundred and fifty pounds of flesh without a name, language or country of origin
a nail-chewing collapsing bleeding anonymous entity
without a concrete goal
all energy and no purpose
I do have a good report
well done well brought up

I am a virus that eats itself due to a lack of matter to feed on
I am the most flesh-coloured dress you can wear
a daring choice
and oiled on a snow-white beach
standing among those hundreds of versions of myself
I ask, Are we already on holiday?
I get no answer
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