Beyond the ‘Sea Boozer’
            beyond the ‘Calvary’
            past the ‘Top of the Head’
live a jumble of people, son
women and men.

Women who sneak those short metres
from bedstead to bedstead
with bedpan in hand
for their forbidden fruits
released at full moon
with porridge spoon, crochet hook, dipstick.

You can see them at work
teasing the fruit from their womb
with paraffin light, with paraffin fumes.

            Blueberry juice best call it.
            Blackberry juice best call it.


As I say: out there my wife is yours
                 out there your wife is mine
                 and his and his.

No rule and no law at all
from bed to bed snails at a crawl.


Rake and Rascal Rake and Rascal Rake and Rascal
so they string the nights together
their skin so salt since the Scheldt
exhales in their rooms.


Go have a taste in the ‘Pin’, beyond the fallen trees
                        do it for me.

Take your young bike
                        ride till you hear or see no more
                                                                      away
from the city as far as you can
                                          away from the sun.

Not you think: where am I?
                                             are you there.

Then give up your hat to the first one who shoots or salutes.
Bow and call like a wild partridge,
sell the buttons off your trousers.
                                               Don’t forget.


Then you can enter.