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SATURDAY NIGHT ALIVE
Ek doen die
Saterdagaand-te-veel-retro-bier-met-
happy-hour-in-die-Heartbreak-Hotel-nommer.
Ja,
ek doen toe weer die ou
“man-who-wants-to-live”-drink-naweek-bier-roetine
pligsgetrou soos ’n omie
wat sy bene probeer terugwen na ’n beroerte
sy oefeninge-nommer.

Ek doen die-nagtrem-huis-toe-nommer –
ek check die
paartjies-koer-saam-teen-die-koue-item;
ek sidder stilletjies vir die
alleen-bum-uitgepass-tenie-ruit-
met-die-blou-spinnerak-wat-opkruip-tenie-nek-tattoo-routine.

Ek doen die skielike-bevlieging-uitwaai-in-die-nag-nommer
om die-walking-on-Miles-Davis-blaas-blou-trompet-
oor-die-diep-rivier-met-die-olie-neon-drome-op-scene
te loop-speel.

Ek doen die inval-by-die-flat-
storm-die-yskas-nommer.
Ek doen die Judy-Garland-op-die-vensterbank-
met-Amaretto-en-melk-
“somewhere-over-the-rainbow”-
wat-die-dokter-my-verbied-het-program.

Ek doen weer die uit volle bors
“What-now-my-love?-
now-there-is-nothing-
I-feel-the-world-
closing-in-on-me-”
die “What-now-my-love?-
now-that-it’s-over-
-there’s-only-sky-
where-the-sea-should-be-”
nommertjie.

Maar ek doen veiligheidshalwe ook die selfkritiese-
1-2-3-blok-myself-
is-die-gedig-noodsaaklik?-
-prosedure
Ek doen die skud-en-skop-die-ou-moedertaal-
soos-’n-defekte-Coke-outomaat-in-’n-uitgestorwe-Bahnhof-
op-’n-klein-Duitse-spookdorpie-lank-na-middernag-roetine.

Ek ruk en pluk my kop-taal-hart soos ’n pinball-masjien
en dan doen ek skouerophalend
die-Send-nommer –
sit af die computer,
verlaat die gedig-kamer,
borsel tande,
loop gly paling en sy
in die bed.

In die bed lê ek dan elektries
stil, wa-wyd wakker –
kyk deur die blindings
hoe swart die nag
hoe sekel die maan.
SATURDAY NIGHT ALIVE
I do the
too-much-retro-beer-during-happy-hour-
on-Saturday-evening in-the-Heartbreak-Hotel number.
Yes,
then I do the old
“man-who-wants-to-live”-drink-weekend-beer number
as dutifully as some old guy
trying to win his legs back after a stroke
does his exercise routine.

I do the late-tram-home number —
I check the
couples-cooing-together-against-the-cold item;
I seethe quietly for the
bum-passed-out-alone-against-the-window-
with-the-blue-spider-web-tattoo-that-creeps-up-his-neck routine.

I do the sudden-inspiration-blowing-in-the-night number and
walk along playing the strolling-to-Miles-Davis-blowing-blue-
trumpet-over-the-deep-river-with-the-oil-neon-dreams
scene.

I do the raid-on-the-flat-and-
storm-the-fridge number.
I do the Judy-Garland-on-the-windowsill-
with-Amaretto-and-milk-
“somewhere-over-the-rainbow”-
that-the-doctor-proscribed programme.

With the full power of my lungs
I do the
“What-now-my-love?-
now-there-is-nothing-
I-feel-the-world-
closing-in-on-me”
the “What-now-my-love?-
now-that-it’s-over-
-there's-only-sky-
where-the-sea-should-be-”
little number.

But for safety reasons I also do the self-critical-
1-2-3-block-myself-
is-the-poem-necessary?
Procedure
I do the shake-the-head-the-old-mother-language-
like-a-defective-Coke-despensing-machine-in-an-abandoned-Bahnhof-
in-a-small-German-ghost-village-long-after-midnight routine.

I pull and pluck my head-language-heart like a pinball machine
and with a shrug of the shoulder I do
the Send number –
turn off the computer,
leave the closed room of poetry,
brush teeth,
walk slide eel and she
in the bed.

In the bed I lie electrically
still, wide awake –
look through the blinds
how dark the night
how sickle the moon.