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Johan de Wit

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Outdone by language and slain by reaction
No reversals are to be expected
Neither are seals reflected
Although fear might restore the first stroke
Which sentiment likes itself
If it is nine times its body weight
And constituted of a British decision
There is not much hope left on these isles
So I’ll have a Sunday wash and shave
Expectations hide in their social face
Look for a doubled life
Dead after having taken the wrong turning
Christian names are minor pronouns
Family names compete with autumn leaves
Falling down at the first storm
Not surviving nature’s course
Our first constitutional crisis was not an accident
I hardly call it a true picture
Which painted itself at the sight of a single bed
In an occupied split city ten years later I was ten
Then I accepted the floor
Now I crawl around the common
Still buying food for two
Which is like singing to yourself
With your tongue hanging from the ceiling
Be quiet for death has nothing to sell
But so much to say

 

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