Gentle sun

Bear no secrets in your hollow mind now
try to make it sing inside the void
tell your story to the vestal virgins
try to sell it to the purple trees
and ask them, yes ask them
if they believe you
          early in the morning I shall rise
          early in the morning I get up
          people are going to church
          so ask them
          if they believe you

See the secrets of your inner dreamspace
it's a fine trip to your coloured eyelids
tell your dreams to the vestal virgins
and explain them to the purple trees
and ask them, yes ask them
if they believe you

           refr.

Hope for temples and for Japanese mountains
with the sounds and sights that live inside me
go share your hopes with the vestal virgins
try to pal up with the purple trees
and ask them, yes ask them
if they can help you

refr.


1967

Early

The morning with its strings
tied roughly to the hilltops of the sky
is smiling with golden lips
and shattered teeth
to the lonesome killers in the valley

the morning tied its quilt
to the goodness of the sun
and the binoculars of the sky
hardly reach the distant rooms
where people shyly awake

rising from their slippery beds
they look out of guillotine windows
as the sun is bound to behead them
then they abandon their pajamas
and retire into the woods

in the soldierlike forest
they cover their bald heads
waiting for noon to overtake them
they're telling each other to be kind
to the children of their children

the towels of the afternoon
then come and dry the wounded and wet
the sun circling madly in its cage
is sticking needles in their skulls
and even the oldest prayers are no help

potato-like hills wink in the evening
electric light reveals masochist countries
the flowers have retired into the past
the trees preach that the night is here
and people try to forget about the future.


1967. Zoals ik al noteerde bij het nummer Powdery grey is ook dit een totaal ongestructureerd ding dat niet rijmt en geen correct ritme heeft en toch beschouwde ik dat toen als een lied, zette het effectief op muziek en trad er vaak succesvol mee op.

Season of your eyes

The holes in the sky
pink and blue and red
they refuse me
and deny me
everything I've always wanted
everything I ever cared for
like the sun and the moon
and the season of your eyes

     after winter and summer
     also autumn and spring are disguised
     in the season of your eyes

The tower of days
brown and black and white
it controls me
tries to hold me
from rehearsing all the old moves
like the kissing and the hugging
the sleeping and the waking
in the season of your eyes

      refr.

                 tell me, were you cold last night
                 did you feel alone
                 did you miss my lips or hands
                 being on your own ?

September 1968

Powdery grey

I love the rain so
I need the sun too
wouldn't miss them for a thing in this world
I hope to see you
don't wanna miss you
wouldn't hurt you for an earthly thing
and oh let hysterical minds rule the world
of let them do their worst
but promise to visit me at times
be sure to come and look at me


I want you to care
let your eye lead me
wouldn't miss it for a thing in this world
I think I know now
oh I am sure now
wouldn't spoil it for a thing in this world
oh let destruction rule its strange land
oh worlds keep drifting apart
but promise to answer me at times
yes to try and touch me


I want to see you
I need to be sure
wouldn't give up for a thing in this world
I think I know now
don't wanna go now
wouldn't leave you for a thing in this world


Juni 1967. Ik werd voor de eerste keer in mijn leven verliefd en dat resulteerde in talloze koortsachtige teksten die weinig structuur of rijm hadden en nog niet in perfect Engels gesteld waren maar waarmee ik wel wekelijks optrad voor bijvoorbeeld een volle Muze e.d. Deze wou ik bewaren als type-voorbeeld, de meeste anderen mogen nu eindelijk naar het liedjeskerkhof bij het oud papier. De titel is ook typisch voor mijn puberale frivoliteit, hij verwijst naar een grapje van in die dagen "What's powdery grey ?" - "Instant elephant !" Woeha.

Riddles

You've lost your riddles in the sand
and anyway you'll have to travel further
you had your memories at hand
there were so many there to buy them

You've left your riddles in my hand
I really tried so hard to solve them
and on the roadmaps of this land
my cities lay so humbly

    All our weapons we have drowned
    the women all lie sleeping
    around the fires in the night
    where in dreams we put things right

a blind young girl comes out to dance
her meadow is the greenest
a man is betting on the chance
he'll find an answer soon now

       refr.
  

                      you're a snake
                      gliding through the hedge
                      and for days
                      I wait and dredge
                      my mind for facts
                      'pon which to act

13 + 16 sept. 1968

We were here

I opened my eyes and met the morning
small bits of snow were in the trees
the frozen atmosphere was ours
copying the tales the sun once told
copying the tales the sun once wrote

     You got off the bus and
     you walked beside me
     and it was true it seems

Beside all the snow we walked in daydreams
the ivory sins of your mouth
were biting the snake of my tongue
the future and past reached out in vain
to grab you and capture me again

      refr.

I had mounted a horse while you walked
we went, you holding its tail
I looked around and heard myself
whispering surprising words to you
revealing a world we could go to

     refr.

                 your body stretched out endlessly
                 I told my stories carelessly
                 and it was true it seems


25/2 en 27/5/68. Elfi

Family life

Sun writing her eyes on walls
scribbling poems on my cheeck
girl's face hesitatingly
foreseeing the day's course
houses in the stolid air
candles of our futile lives
shining on the sodden grass
and I don't think I'm here
fathers tyrannize their homes
I hear the mothers sighing
tastes can never differ there
the daughters hate at night

Sun divides herself to us
white walls wash themselves like cats
and while the artist's sleeping
the trees paint self-portraits
the birds vote constitutions
to feed the starving men
the happy few that slept through
the panic of their lives
fathers beat their daughters up
and pity themselves at night
the daughters die this strange live death
that leaves them ever cold.


Summer 1968. Irene met de groene ogen die leken te ademen. Dit gaat wel degelijk over misbruik.