Geenstijl

Het is weekend. Dat vergaat nooit.

The living room
is in a burrowed mood, like a Diane
Arbus photo of a Christmas tree

with detonating gifts. Rhyme riffs
as jazz blares from the Batmobile, its edgy
tires swiveling the avenues. To carry a sign,
to be real, to wait and see, to multiply

the options of acute anxiety,
is as quotidian as the moon outside the living
room that has now become a monochromatic square,
the election served on TV trays

like a granite biscuit. Who can eat?
Who can promise the ocean a deck chair,
a Frisbee? The margins of suffering squeeze.
Halos drop to the asphalt and ping

Prettig weekend. En be nice.