Daarnet toen ik stond
Te wachten aan het rode licht
Moest ik aan u denken
En toen werd het groen
En ik reed door
Zoals dat hoort
En ik moest nog steeds aan u denken
Maar vraag me niet waarom
Want dat weet ik niet
dinsdag 31 juli 2007
vrijdag 20 juli 2007
Spitante Olifant
Een olifant o zo spitant
Met kleine ogen, grote slurf
Zei ooit zachtjes in een oor
Een klein en angstig oor, hoor je
“In juni ben je dood, o ja
De tijger zal komen”, en de kleine zei
“Goeie grutten ‘k blijf in m’n woonst
‘k Weet telkens ik grommen hoor
Het Tijger is die zal gaan roven
Maar ik ben veilig, heb het gehoord
Want Olifant die zei het zo.”
Iedereen was ongerust, o ja
Aan de zebra, mangoeste werd het verkondigd
Aan ’t vuile nijlpaard in de modder
Dat ploeterend en kauwend op ’t
Pikante maal van hippo-plankton
De boodschap straal negeerde
En aan ’t onderzoek refereerde
Van stomme waterbizon, o ja
De angst sloeg ‘t hele bos om ’t hart
Ze renden rond dag en nacht
Maar je zal zien, het baatte niet
De tijger kwam en zei: “Wie ik?
Je weet toch dat ik jullie niet zal deren
Iets om te kauwen prefereer ik
Op jullie breek ik nog een tand” – o ja
Hij at de olifant.
Originally a song called Effervescing Elephant written by Syd Barrett to be found on an album called Barrett, 1970. I guess all rights are deserved.
Met kleine ogen, grote slurf
Zei ooit zachtjes in een oor
Een klein en angstig oor, hoor je
“In juni ben je dood, o ja
De tijger zal komen”, en de kleine zei
“Goeie grutten ‘k blijf in m’n woonst
‘k Weet telkens ik grommen hoor
Het Tijger is die zal gaan roven
Maar ik ben veilig, heb het gehoord
Want Olifant die zei het zo.”
Iedereen was ongerust, o ja
Aan de zebra, mangoeste werd het verkondigd
Aan ’t vuile nijlpaard in de modder
Dat ploeterend en kauwend op ’t
Pikante maal van hippo-plankton
De boodschap straal negeerde
En aan ’t onderzoek refereerde
Van stomme waterbizon, o ja
De angst sloeg ‘t hele bos om ’t hart
Ze renden rond dag en nacht
Maar je zal zien, het baatte niet
De tijger kwam en zei: “Wie ik?
Je weet toch dat ik jullie niet zal deren
Iets om te kauwen prefereer ik
Op jullie breek ik nog een tand” – o ja
Hij at de olifant.
Originally a song called Effervescing Elephant written by Syd Barrett to be found on an album called Barrett, 1970. I guess all rights are deserved.
dinsdag 17 juli 2007
The Kaggevinne Killer
It’s he and no-one else.
The Kaggevinne Killer.
The man who savagely slaughtered an entire family of six with an axe last month - in Kaggevinne.
Who smashed the head of a retired construction worker with a hammer last week - in Scheldewindeke.
Who, yesterday in Leopoldsburg, cut up a couple making love to pieces with a butcher’s knife.
Everybody knows him. Nobody ever saw him. The police forces of the entire country are looking for him and cannot find him.
He’s in all the newspapers and he’s on television almost every day.
He’s the most famous man in the country. But nobodyknows him.
Behind the mask of the Kaggevinne Killer hides the second mask of the Kaggevinne Killer.
Sometimes only two. Sometimes thousands. Sometimes one thousand sharp. And on very special days there might even be three million billion zillion.
His heart is an unreachable and unbreakable foam rubber electric blue Pirelli tennis ball.
The masks have a low-wage country origin.
The heart is Made in Italy.
On the left side of the road there’s a small yet ample residence chalked in a fresh shade of white. It’s the Recruitment Office for Seasonal Workers. On the right there’s this concrete hypermarket annex Bricostore annex Aldi annex Delhaize annex ShoeDiscount.
The Kaggevinne Killer drives past Bar Harmonie and leaves the town centre of Geetbeets behind him.
Out of Halen and Other Directions he resolutely chooses for Halen.
The wheels of the black Mercury Monarch silently slide on the smooth and tepid asphalt. The coachwork and hubcaps sparkle in the sun.
For the last time the Kaggevinne Killer shifts gears and then comfortably leans back. He lights a Rothmans. Rothmans or Pall Mall. The best tobacco money can buy. King size. Filter tipped.
He wonders: would the pancreas bear blossom this year.
The car radio speaks.
Notice to the travellers.
Sun shines between Geetbets and Halen.
Elsewhere it rains, mostly shit and purple plimsolls, but more shit than purple plimsolls.
Between Bekkevoort and Donk, cows sing from the top of their lungs as they fly straight into the sun in their jingling gilded tinselled chariots.
Today, too, the murders of the Kaggevinne Killer remain unsolved.
The Kaggevinne Killer bursts into laughter, his shock shouted shout shocking swelling up to fortissimo.
He puts out his cigarette and switches off the car radio. The wheels of the black Mercury Monarch silently slide on the smooth and tepid asphalt. The coachwork and hubcaps sparkle in the sun.
Behind the turn, sturdy yet elegant, through a roof of glistering sunlit leafs, in between the green of some willows, the bell tower of the church of Halen appears.
The Kaggevinne Killer slows down, drives into town, drives around in the streets and parks his car close to the corner of the Kerkstraat and the Molenstraat.
The Kaggevinne Killer lies back light heartedly in his leather driver seat.
The thoughts come buzzing up to him out of his camouflage heart.
That ram is a rascal!
Destiny can be altered in a figure of speech.
That dirty chief inspector son of bitch. And don’t get started on the assistant.
‘t Is the season of the driller. The season of sex lingerie. Some sour diversion.
He puts out his cigarette and steps out of the car.
There is no-one, from the North Sea coast line up to border of Poland, who has such big a pair of boobies and such a big behind than Big Zwanita. The landlady of The Silver Helmets bar on the town square of Halen.
Her mug is a balloon, her tummy a hot air balloon, her cunt an unfolded zeppelin.
The layer of glimmering flaming red lip stick on and around her pursed fleshy lips shows bursts and gaps and her eyes lay like unruffled lakes of blue in the heart of that flaking landscape of eyeshade and mascara. Rimmel.
She washes the glasses, washes them again, dries them, puts them on the shelve behind the antique tap.
She ponders.
She daydreams about laying butt naked in the shadow of a palm tree on the hot and grainy sand of a tropical beach.
Just like that the Pacific Ocean gives birth to four young Adonis’s.
They apparantly are more than potent and ready for take off. They come close and overwhelm her. The first one seizes her vaginally, the second one orally, the third one anally and the fourth one rubs his sperm into her nostrils, ears and also hermetically seals all her other body cavities.
Big Zwanita almost comes.
Then the beer glass she holds in her hand falls down on the on the floor and shatters into pieces.
The Kaggevinne Killer wears a gigantic brown cowboy hat, a vivid green linen suit, a vivid red shirt, a vivid yellow tie, vivid black socks, purple plimsolls with shit on its soles and a pair of round white sunglasses with sky blue glasses.
This is how he emerges out of magic and out of nothing on the town square of Halen.
No-one who sees him. Not Deaf Julia. Not Little Bart. Not Mario Goossens. Not Pros Verpoorten. No-one.
No-one sees him.
This is quite remarkable, really.
Then he steps into Big Zwanita’s place.
He takes a seat at a table and puts his briefcase against a table’s leg.
In a single glimpse he assimilates the entire bar: alongside the walls filled with posters of naked women with horses and dogs are little wobbly wooden tables. Chairs with straight backs and wooden seats.
In the middle a miniature snooker. An antique tap. The usual furniture in a bar.
In a corner on the red tiles, Crooked Jules sleeps off his hangover.
The Kaggevinne Killer asks for a cup of coffee. In a mug and not in a glass, he adds.
One queer joker, Big Zwanita thinks, maybe a salesman gone berserk.
She puts down the mug in front of him. He inquires for the price and lays down the exact money. Always convenient to carry small change. Always on hand.
Straight through her camouflage heart, the Kaggevinne Killer spots Big Zwanita's nakedness.
Suddenly the Kaggevinne Killer cracks up into an untameable coughing fit rambling up from the inner depths of his chest only slowly calmed down a few minutes later belching short, dry hacks, gasping for air, almost muted.
He raises from his chair, darts to the door like a madman, pulls it open, rushes down the three stairs and starts running straight to the other side of the square.
One queer joker, Big Zwanita thinks, maybe a salesman gone berserk.
Her eyes fall on the briefcase the salesman gone berserk forgot.
Let’s have a look. Precious. Real leather. It might even be a Samsonite.
Why not open it? Darn. A combination lock. But no. The flaps fly open and the very next moment the whole town of Halen gets blown up, Big Zwanita up front.
In the corner on the red tiles, Crooked Julien is wakened by the blast. He thinks: don’t say it’s my goddamn fault again.
*
The Author:
JMH Berckmans
www.myspace.com/jmhberckmans
The Original Story:
De Killer van Kaggevinne (from 'Rock & Roll met Frieda Vindevogel', Dedalus 1991)
A Tuesday Afternoon Translation
The Kaggevinne Killer.
The man who savagely slaughtered an entire family of six with an axe last month - in Kaggevinne.
Who smashed the head of a retired construction worker with a hammer last week - in Scheldewindeke.
Who, yesterday in Leopoldsburg, cut up a couple making love to pieces with a butcher’s knife.
Everybody knows him. Nobody ever saw him. The police forces of the entire country are looking for him and cannot find him.
He’s in all the newspapers and he’s on television almost every day.
He’s the most famous man in the country. But nobodyknows him.
Behind the mask of the Kaggevinne Killer hides the second mask of the Kaggevinne Killer.
Sometimes only two. Sometimes thousands. Sometimes one thousand sharp. And on very special days there might even be three million billion zillion.
His heart is an unreachable and unbreakable foam rubber electric blue Pirelli tennis ball.
The masks have a low-wage country origin.
The heart is Made in Italy.
On the left side of the road there’s a small yet ample residence chalked in a fresh shade of white. It’s the Recruitment Office for Seasonal Workers. On the right there’s this concrete hypermarket annex Bricostore annex Aldi annex Delhaize annex ShoeDiscount.
The Kaggevinne Killer drives past Bar Harmonie and leaves the town centre of Geetbeets behind him.
Out of Halen and Other Directions he resolutely chooses for Halen.
The wheels of the black Mercury Monarch silently slide on the smooth and tepid asphalt. The coachwork and hubcaps sparkle in the sun.
For the last time the Kaggevinne Killer shifts gears and then comfortably leans back. He lights a Rothmans. Rothmans or Pall Mall. The best tobacco money can buy. King size. Filter tipped.
He wonders: would the pancreas bear blossom this year.
The car radio speaks.
Notice to the travellers.
Sun shines between Geetbets and Halen.
Elsewhere it rains, mostly shit and purple plimsolls, but more shit than purple plimsolls.
Between Bekkevoort and Donk, cows sing from the top of their lungs as they fly straight into the sun in their jingling gilded tinselled chariots.
Today, too, the murders of the Kaggevinne Killer remain unsolved.
The Kaggevinne Killer bursts into laughter, his shock shouted shout shocking swelling up to fortissimo.
He puts out his cigarette and switches off the car radio. The wheels of the black Mercury Monarch silently slide on the smooth and tepid asphalt. The coachwork and hubcaps sparkle in the sun.
Behind the turn, sturdy yet elegant, through a roof of glistering sunlit leafs, in between the green of some willows, the bell tower of the church of Halen appears.
The Kaggevinne Killer slows down, drives into town, drives around in the streets and parks his car close to the corner of the Kerkstraat and the Molenstraat.
The Kaggevinne Killer lies back light heartedly in his leather driver seat.
The thoughts come buzzing up to him out of his camouflage heart.
That ram is a rascal!
Destiny can be altered in a figure of speech.
That dirty chief inspector son of bitch. And don’t get started on the assistant.
‘t Is the season of the driller. The season of sex lingerie. Some sour diversion.
He puts out his cigarette and steps out of the car.
There is no-one, from the North Sea coast line up to border of Poland, who has such big a pair of boobies and such a big behind than Big Zwanita. The landlady of The Silver Helmets bar on the town square of Halen.
Her mug is a balloon, her tummy a hot air balloon, her cunt an unfolded zeppelin.
The layer of glimmering flaming red lip stick on and around her pursed fleshy lips shows bursts and gaps and her eyes lay like unruffled lakes of blue in the heart of that flaking landscape of eyeshade and mascara. Rimmel.
She washes the glasses, washes them again, dries them, puts them on the shelve behind the antique tap.
She ponders.
She daydreams about laying butt naked in the shadow of a palm tree on the hot and grainy sand of a tropical beach.
Just like that the Pacific Ocean gives birth to four young Adonis’s.
They apparantly are more than potent and ready for take off. They come close and overwhelm her. The first one seizes her vaginally, the second one orally, the third one anally and the fourth one rubs his sperm into her nostrils, ears and also hermetically seals all her other body cavities.
Big Zwanita almost comes.
Then the beer glass she holds in her hand falls down on the on the floor and shatters into pieces.
The Kaggevinne Killer wears a gigantic brown cowboy hat, a vivid green linen suit, a vivid red shirt, a vivid yellow tie, vivid black socks, purple plimsolls with shit on its soles and a pair of round white sunglasses with sky blue glasses.
This is how he emerges out of magic and out of nothing on the town square of Halen.
No-one who sees him. Not Deaf Julia. Not Little Bart. Not Mario Goossens. Not Pros Verpoorten. No-one.
No-one sees him.
This is quite remarkable, really.
Then he steps into Big Zwanita’s place.
He takes a seat at a table and puts his briefcase against a table’s leg.
In a single glimpse he assimilates the entire bar: alongside the walls filled with posters of naked women with horses and dogs are little wobbly wooden tables. Chairs with straight backs and wooden seats.
In the middle a miniature snooker. An antique tap. The usual furniture in a bar.
In a corner on the red tiles, Crooked Jules sleeps off his hangover.
The Kaggevinne Killer asks for a cup of coffee. In a mug and not in a glass, he adds.
One queer joker, Big Zwanita thinks, maybe a salesman gone berserk.
She puts down the mug in front of him. He inquires for the price and lays down the exact money. Always convenient to carry small change. Always on hand.
Straight through her camouflage heart, the Kaggevinne Killer spots Big Zwanita's nakedness.
Suddenly the Kaggevinne Killer cracks up into an untameable coughing fit rambling up from the inner depths of his chest only slowly calmed down a few minutes later belching short, dry hacks, gasping for air, almost muted.
He raises from his chair, darts to the door like a madman, pulls it open, rushes down the three stairs and starts running straight to the other side of the square.
One queer joker, Big Zwanita thinks, maybe a salesman gone berserk.
Her eyes fall on the briefcase the salesman gone berserk forgot.
Let’s have a look. Precious. Real leather. It might even be a Samsonite.
Why not open it? Darn. A combination lock. But no. The flaps fly open and the very next moment the whole town of Halen gets blown up, Big Zwanita up front.
In the corner on the red tiles, Crooked Julien is wakened by the blast. He thinks: don’t say it’s my goddamn fault again.
*
The Author:
JMH Berckmans
www.myspace.com/jmhberckmans
The Original Story:
De Killer van Kaggevinne (from 'Rock & Roll met Frieda Vindevogel', Dedalus 1991)
A Tuesday Afternoon Translation
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