Touching Belgians (A Saga in Two Parts)

PART 1:


[during his fast he reads]:

Zoenen voot keet doen ons zielen,
Zoenen voot keet ongebonden...
Zoenen, veet als de zonne-vrouw
Zoent de koot bloemen-monden.

[during his fast he thinks]:

"For I alone could taste the small creatures
living in Belgium..."

//
"Touching Belgians, A Saga"


One day, in a droopy hat of no design
I exited some parlor where I had been sequestered.

There was nothing to pack, nothing to take,
but my desire to touch some Belgians.

Along a weird road, some animals were halving
a reward, some people were talking to a tree in a wagon.
I asked them, "Perchance, are you these Belgians?"

"No," said they, "They are many miles away, and
pointed to the distance.."

An animal smirked, and a person snickered.
I imagined the sun was a young girl's face
that might burn off my fingers.

I continued on..

Many weeks later, I came to deep depression in the earth
and saw a giant sitting on a rock. "Is this Belgium?"
He raised his pant-leg and showed me an old carriage
he had strapped to his shin with a garter..

(Blue lacquer, with abalone' mosiacs!)

"Get in.."

He went for many miles through deepest wood and piles
of animals halving rewards, and people in pointy hats
following some trees in wagons.. At last I saw a sign.
"Chubby Belgians are fine." and also "Chubby Belgians on fire."

"Do not be swayed", said the Giant.

And then I fell asleep.

"Voot keet mik muton kluigt met dut
peem poob in wat bloemen-zegen.."
is what I said in my sleeping.

And when I woke up, my hand was on her hip.
The giant had hooked me up with a sweet young
Belgian!

"Voot keet," said she. I shivered.
"Voot keet, puigh pa juta.." There was
an aromatic dribble in her chin cleft. There
was a tiny cherub there in a dribble sleeping bag.
And then her mother brought in
some steaming mangled pumpkins..


PART 2:


All that day
in the Flemish veld
we snuggled, and morked and fuzzled,
vooted, and keeted in the queenly aires
of her pale Flemish melons aloft
in her mother's treehouse.

"Yanka, Yanka, my love,
I will make ye a snow-helmet
of virally transfigured botanicals.."

"Naka," said Yanka,
and showed me her svelt black snow helmet
decorated with tiny charms of pumpkins.

For one year, all I could hear, was the sweet
voot keet of Yanka.

Then one day the giant came
and took me back with only a 'pumpkin
on my back to remember the smell of sweet Yanka.
So that,
With only my mandolin of grossly abutinated
starfish, I float in meadows of cowpies
on rugs of enslaved puerile kittens
singing the praises of Yanka:

Voot keet
Voot keeet
Yanka Yanka Yimmi
Voot Keet
Koot Veet

Vicklickin on mi yommie..

[image of the giant's snickering, warted face, cracking a jolly, horrid smile.]

Birds live in my beard, and make small tables from twigs.

And I write to my diary:

But now it is two years past, and Yanka
has sent me a letter, that the giant has eaten her arm off.

And it's just as well,
as I am importing these soft Belgian pumpkin trees
from her treacherous, hot assed mother.