In slow motion, I make silly faces
together they look normal
I wind myself back

and forth, enlarge me
and watch me close to the skin:
I look real

whatever hat I wear
whatever my wishes are
underneath it

In the dark, I feel inside me
for who I am, listening
to my body

which is difficult to understand
It wants to eat and enjoy
fondling, yes it wants to

enjoy music and attention
and the knowledge
to be needed, admired

it wants to surrender
to someone, to real
pleasures that are seen

Queen without a nation
no copper in my blood
no parade of swanky princes
competing for my hand

no one who dresses me
with someone else's money
I don't ask anything by decree
and my shit doesn't fix me

to an inherited bullybook
composed with suavity
and silky soft cords
of sticky oracle words

which way flag and pennant blow
and that it is still far, but
the nation the nation the nation
Hooray Hooray Hooray

I am a queen
without a nation

Then I will
no longer gasp for breath
risk to open the window
and cry out

yes then I will
take off my clothes
every night without worries
and sleep relaxed

then I will
no longer see fire-barrels
and banners in the museums
only kill switches and red buttons

then I will
receive uninvited guests
and everything I wish for
because long ago

now
I have made a start
not to listen anymore
to harsh words

now
I carefully absorb the exudate
wash the blood-stained cloths
and convert my lookout posts

now
I pick up the broken eggs
clean up free of charge
now I have made a start

Father still hangs there:
a beautiful young man
in gaudy clothes

who made himself heard
with high heels
just married, not strict

the man of duty
I have known, in working-clothes
busy with important matters

with a lenient look
at Mum dressing up
in discomfort, in the morning

of their brass wedding
both passed the switch points
continuing on each other's track

Mum in the stylish colours
she didn't need before
to belong

Father increasingly frugally fighting
for recognition of his achievements
until their bodies over the years

will turn switch points again
and he will smile leniently
at his portrait together with Mum

Maybe I'm just a girl
in your eyes, like all girls
have been, although sometimes
only for a short time and though you know them different

all so different
the woman next door, the schoolmistress
your grandma, your mother
your sister and me, the girl
you fell in love with

me, the wife you sleep with
and our little daughter, a princess
in your fantasies
because you are at a loss
with us as we are

Who will do it, who
will sketch who I am
not just any

woman with skin
and hair and a figure
eight, ten, like this, like that

but lifelike? The dreamer
perhaps, who is looking
around vaguely, letting

my image sink in before
he begins to draw; his hands rest
in his eyes, his look is soft

no searchlight
that bleaches me and lights up
less than it blinds

I see people fall back
from coercion and convenience
into old, simple patterns

in which they seem to be stuck
and I wonder if I am free myself
-- no dependent master

of delusive ideals
no nit-picking slave
of self-interest

and no outsider either
who devises difficult possibilities
-- plans and patterns

that jam everything
but I'm failing to scream
My chest explodes, I wake up

and I think of you, should I
have ought to want to kiss you?
Shall I do things differently from now on

and no longer make a story
of the loose encounters
in which I didn't dare to be free?

Dear friend, I can't, I don't
want to resist no more
just let me

stumble slowly
through the day
and admit reluctantly

that you can't do anything
about the missing that will come
there is so much

that I have been missing for years
the cheerfulness in those days
fire in my shoes

years full of happiness
ahead and the endless
feeling to be sexy

with more than the voice
that I still have, but don't
be enchanted by it

Summer, summer clothes
picnic on the jetty
paddle-boarders and fun

I'm looking at you
so shapeless
I would like to be

beneath my face
no legs and arms
no breasts, belly and buttocks

that attract attention, free
from exploring eyes
or free as now

Your inner outlook
which desires my body
would be there anyway

On occasions I stand
on a pedestal, but too often
it is me

I am annoyed
by spoiled egos
and undervalued love

Why believe in freedom
and equality? They exist
or do not exist

Rarely do they exist spontaneously
Or should I believe in them
to soothe the doubts

about my actions
my complicity
and sensible modesty?

knowing that children are formed
by adult frustrations and they too
will have to assert the ideals

Also worlds that we don't have
and have not even experienced
we can cherish, skaters
on the canals of the eleven cities
and those of Amsterdam

We know it from photos and
paintings, fashion from grandma's time
pharaohs, Indians and dinosaurs
the splendour of microorganisms
and the blue ice of glaciers

where cows now graze, the love
on the faces of strangers
which I look at again and again
or a drawing of a little trip
with the three of us on a bicycle

We save it all
somewhere inside us, in the world
which we built ourselves and
where we feel more at home
than wherever

Mama, of course, conceded
sometimes, not often
I hope, out of love

being a little bit less mutual
for the moment

I didn't know anything about that
I was romantic
did not think about children

awakened by tumult
in the parental bedroom

At home was safe, I didn't pay attention
to those other women
available to men's eyes

That was a different world
of advertising and loveless sex

but now I notice, I see
female bodies
as human bodies

only having themselves
as owner

I rather float than swim
The water carries me on ripples
it flows caressing around my belly
and decorates me with breast waves

Don't you imagine anything
my mother shouts
Men look around, she glides majestically
through the city. We are the queens

category, in an exemplary way
we can stand in the middle
spread our wings and
snort fire to enemies

I comfort morning people, give strength
to the brave, colour the balloons
of the happiness gained together
because I am a drake-born swan

Men remain boys, but
sometimes boys are men
when it comes down to it
Then fear makes them brave
awakening their minds, with an emergency
grasp of maturity

Rich people's sons buy themselves free
and betrothed also manage
to get money, so that
only the poor remain
and some rabble, happy with a salary
sometimes hoping for booty, riches

and women of course, women
have to acquiesce
in worry, fear and sorrow
suffering the pain of men
their frustration, their lust
their dreams

Men remain boys, scared boys
With a questioning face you take them
by their fat finger
It's easy to break

But sometimes they get wrapped up in their game
Then they sleep badly and wake up with a start
from the dreams in which they practise
what they are planning

By day they can't smile
They are busy or absent
and when they leave they shout
that they love you very much

They take it so seriously
It's so important and urgent
that they can't talk about it
until their success is assured

Our silence is their conscience
We can't do more
until it has failed
despite their good intentions

The poet dreams romantic
of unearthly beautiful women
and he mocks the ordinary people

He's bluffing he will reveal
the women's secret
their fondest heart's desire

In the end he promises
loyalty to an old woman
whose words laugh at him

Women want to be the boss
of their husband and their lover
not allow them a life of their own

like in the land of Meagrebeast
where this truth is lied
by women who are jealous

and who defend their husbands
so they don't have to go to bed
with their wrong