Jedrzej Polak

On a bike

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On a bike

starry night in Amstel dam
bespoken like spokes in my  bike
just think, rural cohesion, dark unforgettable insides of big breasted mamas should provide us with the explanation
no such way, said she disparagingly
looking at the stork's nest on the chimney
goin' east? ask I forever doubting my good judgments,
who am I to decide, narcissus naked named after his bony father answers with a grin.
Body doubles, throat cleaners, peace makers, odour killers, all come disconnected under the bluish maze of guillotined sky,
come chasing me in the morning, crisp in its dutch lousiness.
For most formica kitchens thoust seen
there's forever one in waiting.
Which one? said she.
Grab me and you know the meaning of sunday.
Goddess demeter in her church best tripped on her bike towing the better part of olympus in her wake.
Who's to know when we end or why? Wanna ask her? Who's she to know. A woman. That's enough.
Good natured godzillas in styrofoam suits talk to me incessantly about their still-borns.
Who am I to know what happens in clumsily redecorated amphibian huts with thatched roofs?
Never visited there, though. For better or for worse.
What's waiting around the thatched cerebral corner? Never had the guts to ask.
How is life here? they often want to know.
Who are they? ask I, who are they to ask.
They smile from around the corner dressed up like hell, dressed up in their pink sweatshirts and underware.
Milk is a florin a pint today, providing the cows milk themselves.
Otherwise the windmills must do.
Do what? asks the fair lady with sexy biking calves.
Do whatever is needed on a rainy day in Limburg. Where do we try?
On a detour to the Queen's forest. Not far from Hilversum.

Artwork by Peter Schmidt, design for a tattoo.