Maatstaf. Jaargang 32

[p. 95]

Jacob Lowland Dreamed Biking

for Gerrit Komrij (and E.J. Potgieter before him)

1

Three hulks in helmets and black leather rush
towards me on roaring Harley Davidsons.
Their thighs are chained. Their holsters hold real guns.
They stop in front of me, get off. They push

me down and shuck my clothes off, bare my buns.
My body quakes and shivers at their touch.
What dream is this? What film? It could be Dutch,
the motion is so slow-. Beside us runs

the river Alph. There are two bright red suns
searing the blasted landscape. In the dust
I make the sign. Across a bike a rust
speck circles out like water, drips and runs.

[p. 96]

2

Their helmets fall away. Their faces sprout
tendrils and twigs, then leaves as bright as blood.
Maybe a remake of Orphée? That would be good
in times like these. I get up, turn about,

and make the sign again. Their guns turn wood,
their bikes scrap metal, jackets leatherette.
My fuck-you finger pointed like a jet-
ray gun, I hold them under fire. I should

make it turn Westworld. Brunner shoots. A dud.
Four people crumple, crumble. Bit by bit
the sets collapse and burst aflame. I sit
up in my bed. You're gone. This time for good.