Poetry from the Latin Buffoon Puppet

Boys from Lynx

touch of the jelly-fish

I only wore your trousers ...

It was never easy for me to look into the eyes of the grey snake. It was never easy for me to see him digesting another frog. Mr. Wasp was never mercyfull while gathering the unbroken bones. The horror from the backstage is still wandering through the smoke of my mind.

Your forests were cold, I could never really fear it's length. My mother is still wandering there, looking for the last red raspberries of the old frog. They say he will never die, for the memory is his breath. But no one knows where he hides, no one knows where his smoke comes from. Some say he's the travestite of the black zone. The grey snake could never feel his breath.

Mr. Wasp, gather your children. I didn't break your glasses, I didn't take your snakes. The snake-tongue is the last memory attached to your mind.

The injection of dr. grey snake made your soul quiet, soothened your soldiers to sleep. The black lullaby is still the bible you read from, cutting away the threatening pages.

You still wear the feathers of your ancestors, but you took the needles out of them. Oh, you lost your needles in the sands of the city of sleep. You carry seven beds on your back, you are still a sleepwalker in the rain.

Oh, where are your children, oh hero from the past. You lost them all in your dreams.

Bugs are working in your garden, carrying the last seven stones of your pirate-buttons you used to wear. You lost your wildness, you lost your sting. Father, I couldn't follow your strange fruits anymore. They come from too far places, wearing a too deep linen smile to trust.

Forgive me, father, for not kissing your sirens which you used to guard your silences. Their tall tails were never my dreams to sail on.

Forgive me, father, for not wearing the uniforms you gave me, when I was young. You forgot to remove the needles by which mother used to sew.

I'm not complaining anymore about the zooming winds in the trousers you gave me. These were the only things I used to wear. Bees painted my body to protect me against the cold nights in the summer. I was your summer-child, your sunday's kid. You used to spoil me with grandfathers secrets. I will never forget your soft embracements, they brought the tears back to my swallowed heart.

Father, I still feel the holes in my head, the thorns in my hands, the needles weaved throughout my body, looking for my inner cellars, below the houses of my heart. I still see aunt walking outside in the garden, wearing a carved smile, hunting the city-bees. It always soothed my inner garages, who used to produce steaming bull-boats. I burried my bulls long ago, in the garden of my neighbour's.

Aunt used to carve the flowers in their horns. I still see her bathing in too hot waters, she looks like you, father.

waiters in old amsterdam

How tall are these legs of the boys from lynx. They don't seem to touch the ground.

They are the waiters in the little hotel of amsterdam. They are still waiting for the old host, who doesn't seem to show up very often. They still want to marry his sirens.

They are still dragging the rivers again, looking for old drowned watches to sell. They sell everything, but the prices are too high. The watches aren't working anymore, but the buyers like the flavors of it. The people wear big noses, bought in the trick-shops at the canals. The waiters from lynx are also selling noses. They are the leaders of the blind, selling them long sticks with hands at the tops.

They like to be on the beaches of forest-seas, gathering the sand to keep them all blind. They are playing marbles with eyes.

Boy of Lynx, you knew the hiding secret of the killer-eye. Pacman was the fright of the seven seas. You saw his clouds of canaries terrorizing the coasts of the planet. He never revealed his name, while burning the ships of spanish rivers. He never spat out the goldfishes he ate.

He used to curse the little statues of white saints hanging on his arms. Their blue bingo-cards are still frightening his mind. You always hated the prince of domino, you used to play billiards with him. His cues were taller than yours, and his green money had blue shades, sharp crenated. You couldn't stand his odor of innocence, captivating your houses, without doubts. You always said his tongue was too tall, and his balls were cubes. Do you still not know the curse of the marbler ?

A gambler entered your house on a horse, without breaking a wall, a feast in history.

Prince of domino, hanging on the waves of your mother's dress.

Prince of pears, running through the milk, searching for the exit.

All these cities were spoilt by the handicapped nurses of the big eye, gathering drunk, drained saturdays on a sunday-morning.

Don't cry when another snake takes you away to it's lair. This is how you discover the world.

palace of failure

Little killer-eye, in bagdad you had your palace, until the spanish dreams took it away. Now you're reading latin braille, chasing the killer-whales away. No one knows you are blind. Your television died long ago. You are wearing black glasses, to hide your shame and fear. You still love to play pacman, behind your invisible screen, but you are a blind child.

You lost your marbles, you lost your luck, you were living as a prince of lost games in the palace of failure. Broken records were entering through your windows, broken languages were painted on your walls.

Broken trust, broken games. All you wanted to do was escaping in fear and become a fright.

But in your heart you are a prince, carrying the games of your mother and father under your arms, in pride. You know how to play the games, you know where to put your pawns. Your golden dice are still blinking in the sun.

A spanish dream blinded your sight, but you are still in your palace. A little latin killer-buffoon, a prophet from the black zone, wearing zorro's sword, paralyzed your soul. But the balls of the domino-prince weren't cubes, the spanish dream turned you upside down.

Little orphan, your heart is so frozen. The high-heeled ice-cream made your heart bleed. Show me the thorns in your eyes, show me the threads of your puppets. Little puppet-master, driven by unreached trophees, hunted by the lions of an unreached football, your medaillons are still bleeding in the gardens.

You were too afraid to show your heart, afraid to show your empty marble-sack.

Running over broken chess-boards, stinging your feet. Wrestling with stubborn playcards, sailing ships in a glass of red wine, drowning in cups too full of beer, but the domino-prince is still on your side. In the billiard-room you met the boys from lynx. They always saw you as their little friend, their little son. They are still nursing the blind.

the cook's book

Officer of destruction, little terrorist from libra, you are still a whispering prince, shutting doors with a sigh and a shhh.

You watched the boys of lynx, cutting languages, voices, speeches and foreign accents in their yellow kettles, spreading their beaches over the edges of steam to cover the eyes of the swimming dictionaries, to bring the sirens of the old wasp into sleep.

Seventy lullaby-divers were entering the kettles, dropping their anchors to determine the gliding flavours.

Did pinocchio ever play billiards ? His lies were enough to let the balls stream.

The old domino-stairway is cracking. At the top the princess of bagdad is crying tears of lost games. She knows where you went through. She was always by your side. Her tears are mixing with yours, breaking the chains. No more games to play, they are all lost, trying to find their ways back to the hearts of little children. Don't care for a game, they bring nothing but tears.

She feels his hands touching her's. The thorns are coming to the surface of his hands. She feels nothing but stings. The old wasp comes to the top of the stairs, showing them three marbles.

The little buffoon-puppet is hiding itself in a corner of the domino-stairs, having a long knife in it's little hands. Little killer-dictionaries are hiding behind the black buttons of his suit.

When the old wasp shows the first marble, they attack.

The prince wrestles with dictionaries, with old languages from deep pits. His trousers are getting wet, his mornings are turning red. At the top of the stairs, the princess of bagdad is still crying. He feels her tears running through his trousers, reaching for his boots. The old shoe speaks all languages, the old shoe knows all names.

The boys of lynx are running up the old domino-stairs, stinging the pearls of the old dictionaries. The power of the wasp. These were the letters of the cook's book, following echo's of a mind turned upside down.

The little hotel is blushing again, the walls wearing new smoke.

little buffoon

Smoke comes from your little house in the desert. You are cooking the whole day, creating games to play. Chess-apples were your speciality. You stole the smoke from the old host's soup. Little smoke-maker, little game-breaker, little sun of purple devils, you wore the crowns of the cardgame-cooks.

Smoke is entering the billiards-room. The old gambler gives you a glass of milk to drink. He likes your funny speech, and he feels sorry for your lost dog.

The walls here are painted by a little truant, doing black jobs to pay his schoolbooks. The stories are getting sadder.

And now you are sitting here on your high bar-chair, drinking beers streaming on the old gambler's money. You invented this box, you created this jail of numbers.

There's nothing left to say, orphans are dying in the cold, and you choose your own champions, writing your own dictionaries with broken pencils, dripped in blood.

Horror with a difficult smile, but you know your rats at the backstage of this circus, kissing the wings of spiders turned upside down. You knew the cook very well, but you never dared to look in his face. Because you were so afraid to lose a game, you started to create your own games, in which you would always be the champion. Your selfmade pawns would always choose you as the president.

The smoke of the little drunk buffoon was rising up in the hills of the cold deserts. The sand was getting colder throughout the years, sealing the graveyards of old eyes.

A sea of broken glasses was lying before my eyes, with waves roaring against the storms.

The little buffoon was sailing his ship to the cave of dwarfs.

Birthday cakes were rising from the deep cave of dwarves, for their gratitude to the little buffoon was big, but he couldn't enjoy his cakes. He missed his parents, but he also hated them.

He feels the old rotten foundling-basket again, swallowing his blankets away.

Killroy was here

Boys from Lynx, waiters under the host's command, foundlings from the beginning, wearing the stings of wasps in their bodies. Being a wasp, searching for the wasp-nest. They always loved their little purple buffoon-doll. Millions of stings flying through the air, searching for the big eye to enter.

Swallowing a fourty-thousand million of wasps. Still an unusual thing to do.

Dark echo's are watching my mind. Tall liquid sirens are dragging their rivers with silver boots. They sold their tails to the sky.

The canals of amsterdam have been dried out. The little purple puppet is looking for his lost house.

His little ring is aching his finger. The old foundling-basket is swallowing his mind.

Burn these baskets, said the old wasp. It's soap in the little hotel for so many years, but the little purple puppet doesn't know that.

Tattoos of old wasp-stings are covering my body. I can still read the comics on my skin, I never have to buy a newspaper or a magazine. Graffiti on my boots, graffito on my t-shirt. Killroy was here, Hitler and Montevani.

These are the dreams, these are the gifts. I never have to buy them, they come through my open windows, entering near to the edge of my bed.

I'm lying on my bed, sifting my dreams, kissing the baskets of wasps. Thanks to them I can dream, thanks to them I can forget. The stings enter my bloodstreams, breaking my heart out of the game. The little purple puppet is still my friend, after all these years sailing the purple fairytales. He knows what it is to be a foundling. We never talk about games, we never talk about the venom of old licorice. We just sail, chasing after forgotten wasps, forgotten dreams.

His poison is entering my mind. It doesn't hurt me, it heals me. For finally I have a friend who shares his pain with me, and he reflects who I am. He reflects my dreams and my tears, my fears and my scars. When I look at him, I see the enchanted mirror, and then I can understand myself.

Thank you for wandering together with me, thank you for drinking the same tears, from the same source. Thank you for the library you brought to my heart, the library of my life.

I will never watch this movie again. I will throw it into the sea. But the memories I have, I will keep them close to my heart. I will not forget what others forgot. I will not forbid what others forbade. I will be free in a garden of space and breath, from my own mind and my own place. This place is the heart of the little purple puppet.

in the waspnest

Entering the waspnest, drinking the juices with old story-teller-wasps, is the best you can do when your ship has been sunk. It is even better than burning memories with a little purple puppet. The old sailor-wasps are good to listen and to talk to.

The little princess from bagdad is bathing in the sea. Teardrops are sticking as jelly-fishes at her body. She saw the second marble of the old wasp. She's drowning her mind in an old basket, bearing a secret in her heart. The wasps are getting her attention, drawing her to the waspnest, where I am sitting on a linen decorated chair, in fragile linen pyama's. This waspnest is in the midst of the big eye. She shows me a book of honey, and I'm licking it, but my face is turning blue and purple. It is so delicious, but the girl sais it's another dictionary to read. It's a language of wasps, a zooming alphabet. The tears are rolling from her eyes, for the letters hurt her and her throat is swollen.

In the sea of tears an electric eel is swimming. No tear can stick at his body.

The tears of the dentist can not reach his mind, he doesn't know his docter's name.

The boys of lynx are still breeding the blind, leading them to the hills of destiny. No one will pay your bills, no one will free your cats. The destiny is two hills away from the little hotel.

The third marble reflects the fragments of the jellyfish's face.

Can I have some rest between the seconds ? You have six seconds to enter the fire.

Can I have some beds between your breaths ? I will check in ten minutes if you did your homework.

The teacher jumps to a board of domino-soldiers. They are shooting with playcard-bullets. It seems the game isn't over. The jellyfish is smoking his pipe. Entering a stage makes the party different. No dress can wash away your make-up. Billiards-soldiers are entering the gallery, the pawns are fainting one by one. The secret suicide-princess is watching the mirror-faces of her draught-soldiers. She can't stand one smile, and will start to scream until the tear is falling.

Vela's old soldiers are encircling the billiards-room. Giant-dice are watching the foam.

I'm walking along the old aldebaran's canals, blowing away some tiny little toy-ships. An old spanish santa-clause called alva is watching my names. He's burning the shadows of old marbles in my skin. An old vela-soldier shaking his head.

Does he know the thief of bagdad ? The trains of the west seem to end in snow. Where are the mar-plots, where are the kill-joys ?

A spanish prince, gathering the old fruits, caring for the old people. Wearing his mother's old fruit-rags sewed at his shirt, and his father's old fruit-statues clipped at his trousers, skating the lakes of the suicide princess, looking for his last pseta to burn.

Skating the marshes, he's looking for the prince of rats, the little truant-boy. I know why you didn't see school, I know why you didn't look into the eyes of the spanish santa-clause. You saw the blood in the teacher's eye. Now you're running with rats, looking for your lost paradise between old gossip-magazines, painting your lips everyday by it's gathered blood. They think you are the queen of advocates, the stinging doorhandle of a dentist's breath, but you are a cheeky newspaper-boy, running with your rats in the alleys of london.

I'm diving deep into the waters of the pink-blue snake's bed. My eyes are full of tears. I saw the deer-dog running to grandmother's city and back. Her dreams are still surrounding my arms, having a tool to swim.

I was always afraid to enter this old alley. The smoke was killing another camouflage. My brother always asked for cigars from the big boys, breaking them when they arrived by post. My mother always told us to take candy from strangers, and bringing it to her for some cruel underground conspiracies. We were never allowed to shake their hands.

I saw a killerbird wearing three feathers in the wind. My mother used to seal their lips, while they entered the garden. Whispers were bringing ice-creams from the nothing, and an overdose of pride is still watching our memories. They are back, but now they have been changed.

I call for twenty teachers racing a long hairy car in the desert. They are looking for the little purple puppet. The eyes of a mill-maid are staring at my coffee-cups. I feel cold breezes entering my trousers again. They are looking for my suspenders.

the spanish castle

The dream-prince is counting his twenty play-cards. He eats from the spanish treasures.

No one would ever know the horror of this place. The little puppet wrote twenty books on the topic. Horror with a glass of wine. A black book of horror with some salt. Three decades without any apricot, is a long time for a pirate with a split character. Which face will he choose today ? My grandmother is drying her apricots in old fency silver books, speaking about a past without soldiers.

The apricot-tree would be the last thing I would look at. I had too many nightmares dripping from it's leaves. It took my grandfather three full days to walk it's perimeter. He's still walking in cubes, leaving deep moisty boot-prints from mysterious giants, echoing through the several bottoms of the old planet. They are still hunting my dreams, spitting my old animal-pals. He's too protective, his walls are too thick, his blankets too heavy.

His mourning giants with funerals in their eyes, dripping old golden coffee, are looking for a dragon, standing on a beach, watching the desert.

The little boy is painting his killer-buffoons, watching his red chess. He's standing on his black mountain, far away from the little hotel. It's still floating to lose it's chains.

The little princess is having her birthday. The little purple puppet won't come. He is inventing a new place.

Dark nights are entering the coffee-house in little bagdad. The spanish teacher has a soft and pleasant voice. It wasn't what you expected, the blinding sting was your daddy's hand. Thorns in the sand are reminding you of the sea. It's treasures are spanish delights, and now you are reading melting braille again. It's drippling from the sun to the skies, softening your heart's ideas.

Finally you see your father's paintings melting, the spanish fire holds you tight. You see the cities melt into a funnel, spinning fading spirals in the air. In the sands of Jupiter a spanish girl is building castles of sand and salt. The waves come to break these treasures every morning. She doesn't know about domino-princes. She's building her own paths. She knows a leather dragon, having teethaches. Her giants are walking too heavy, wearing too heavy suits. Her birds cannot fly because of the heavy feathers. Feathers of iron, feathers of stone. The walls of her castle are so thick that there is no space in the rooms. Only the little ones can live there. Every morning she goes to the beaches watching the roaring waves break her little castles, with tears in her eyes. The tears she sells to the boys of lynx, for a cup of coffee. She is still blind, crying blind tears.

I am drawing new rooms at the walls of her castle, the giants take their place.

From dust to dust the grey snake slides. But I drew too much.

Purple and yellow are still your colours, while orange is raking your sea-gardens.