THE DARK SIDE OF THOUGHT
I put my ghosts in a row and take a group shot. They don’t react to what I say.
There’s my fear of being discovered.
The fear of dark crevices in which my body is a puzzle. Stick my hand into an unknown hole. The echo fails to answer.
There’s my fear of heights – the depths are tugging at my clothes – the call of emptiness an invitation to jump. Only the tower block is listening, my words a hollow reverb off the entry hall.
The other way round there’s the upward abyss when I gaze at clouds too long. I’m being sucked into the cosmos.
To be bitten by domesticated dogs, or see myself in their wounded eyes.
Clowns. Hollow needles. Pension schemes. My elevator allergy. The thought of my head in a shoulder grip in a screaming playground.
I’m worried that I’m not destroying enough memories. Scared I’m swallowing other people’s illnesses.
Falling on my teeth. The lonely sound of breaking blood.
I want to know why sometimes I lie in bed like a snapped branch. Gasp for breath for seconds on end between two worlds.
Softly, I speak of the fear of losing someone. Maybe only the moon knows what it’s like to be seen in another’s light.
The answer sounds like the revolving grind of planets.
Translation by Willem Groenewegen