Rapid Eye Movement/Part II

The fall from a high flat.
That are you.
And at each store you pass you think: I'm falling quite well.
I'm quite well at work.
A fall can endure unending.
But it doesn't matter how you fall.
It matters how you come down.
And that's me.
...
I am the incarnate injustice.
The complete arbitrariness.
Always the wrong moment.
I'm the bullets in the door of the discotheque.
The ticket for her coat was in her hands.
Fine hands.
Then I'm the bullets through the door of the disco.
She was still looking back over her shoulder.
To see the bullet disappear in her left eye.
...
The footprint in a neck.
That is me.
Unpunished.
...
I see myself again in cars,cut open, along the A16.
On a foggy monday morning.
In my little house in the Ardennes.
In the cellar especially built for me.
In the choppers - forgotten for now - in a jungle.
But also in the forgotten time, third floor up back.
Untill I turn into thick, black flies.
And the people next-door are getting problems with it.
...
I am tears.
The turned away gaze.
The closed eyes.
The unborn fruit.
But also the fried egg.
In the morning in the pan.
Just as easy.
...
I have no ethics.
 Piss off, man.
That I cann't allow myself.
Crossing game.
That's ethics.
...
I am what often starts as a little lump.
The silence when the monitor ultimately ceases.
The last conversation, often not made.
I'm so damned sorry.
And tragical.
And with great dismay.
We will miss you.
I am sad, but grateful.
And yet completely unexpected.
...
I have a vague feeling of nausea.
Those times I am brought up for discussion.
...
I always go alone to a party.
And I never come home alone.
...
Take solitude with me.
Leave solitude behind.
...
I am you.
I am your neighbour.
I am your woman next-door.
I'm everything.
...
I am Death
...
Yes, I am the Death. (childlike pronounced)
...
Quite good, eh?
...
I am the last you will see.
Your last experience.
And after that there is nothing.
And that is an understatement.
...
Because, the illusion - and yet you'll agree with me - the illusion that after this there would be an hereafter, or - God save the mark - even something like Heaven, that's then something of a very infantile calibre.
A little walking over a large meadow in white pyamas.
And who organises it?
Every three seconds a dead one, since the origin of mankind.
And they all want to have a talk with Elvis Presly also.
As if death is a free hotel where coca-cola comes out of the tap.
You become crazy about it all.
 To say nothing of those tribes badgering the life out of me because they think seriously they can come back as holy cow or horse  or enumerate the whole cattle population, or as any Napoleon to be born yet.
As though it should interest me.
As though I had time for such things.
Death is no joke.
Piss off, man.
Respect.
Respect for death.
...
It is all of such a vulgarity when I ultimately pass by.
 
 
 

(Woman leaves through the public. 
The dead man remains behind. 
Black-out)