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‘n wit wurmpie
op die stortvloer wriemel.
Ek preek vir My:
Hou Op Lorca* Lees.
Sluk ‘n slaappil...
Sien nie kans vir natuurlike droomsiklusse nie!
Ek verdien ‘n tikkie vergetelheid?
Van die stadige muskiet in die gordynvou,
die grot langs my bed – meubels ingedruk
sodat die kas nie kan toemaak om my bagasie nie.
Deur Genade tuimel ek diep in kunsmatige slaap.
* “Intellect is often poetry’s enemy, since it limits too much, since it lifts the poet into the bondage of aristocratic fineness, where he forgets that he might be eaten, suddenly, by ants, or that a huge arsenical lobster might fall on his head...”
— Federico García Lorca, Theory and Play Of The Duende