this poem is not about a bicycle

you can let go

exhale the air from your body

and limbs wreck the chains

that held you together

lay them across wheels

clarity is created 

at its best when something breaks

keep on shuffling slowly still stop 

too late for all the paths you cross

burn the bridges when

you get to them if I don’t –

than you don’t

et cetera

you’re slowly oxidizing, my love

rusting from the inside out burning

over a century what could still be touched

I could’ve lain so many ditches around you to

decide you to drink from to limit

you’ll stay toothed between metal seams

until something, someone’ll drag

your withered body across the streets

and softstill breathes life into it

Richard Nobbe

Absolute Nestor van de Studentenkrant en onomwonden beroepsnerd. Probeert al jaren lang het volk massaal aan de poëzie te krijgen en wisselt dit af met schaamteloos linkse columns en snijdende recensies over film of tv. Als 'ie geen boze reacties krijgt, dan heeft 'ie iets verkeerd gedaan.

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