God the mother, what was I thinking? Give the monkey a pound of extra brains and he will blow the whole thing up - no, not thát god the mother, the thunderstormbellied who has her twilighted son, beggar for epiphanies, chocolatemaker, inventor of the electric hairbrush and the mopedaled shopping trolley, dig trenches in her wet blanket. Who wants to have tapwater taste like blood orange juice and behind white curtains plays wajang with upheaval and Untergang. Oh, oh, the obstinate resistance against the Big Him. So what, what? Fairy, godmother with her cotton stuffed cheeks making an epic pledge from which after years of the trouser pocket itch not a thing was left. Lost your memory, you said? Screech, you old crow, scratch and strike out, this is not the red velvet hall where hundreds of soulmates, their chosen ass glued to their stool, shoespoon the words from your mouth. No, bugger, it's...o well, god the mother from Nasastreet nill, I just happen to know her in that role. That's not an excuse, I know. Even so: with the mucus of sleep still in your eyes, shufflin' towards the mailbox on a pair of non-matching slippers, trippin' over the sobbing toys of yesterday, a swig of coffee where in someone smothered a cigarette and then on a pilgrimage to the land of the eternal tight butt is also poetry, is it not?