I am a disconnected musician weaving slighty faded tunes
that make the dunes of my flatland yawn...
Violonist without genius ,
his head in Neptune's bad mood...
Poor Pierrot, you the butt of the Parisian
parrot's jokes ...
At night I cast my pitiful appareance ,
improvising insane beer and blues ...
The ''Grand -place '' bring us back to futility
and I go to sleep pretending to dream...
Maybe tomorrow the king of jerks
will be crowned ...
I am an autistic pianist who couldn't care less
about anything the lord says...
I scribble down whimsical inspirations
sprinkled with tangy drops ...
A blue night lady is waiting for me
in a Flemish '' In- between '' .
We make love as part of a daily routine
before taking communion with boredom .
I smashed my guitar in a childish fit of anger.
I thought I was Jimi Hendrix ...
But in the 60s I was a hope in a womb
that dreamed at Grace Kelly and at dawn
would take the tram 30 heading toward my misfortune...
There was a taste of days gone by that was about
to fade away in the euro-illusion collapse...
A tribe of primitive punks from the lost dimension,
made of dinosaur leather have descended
on the Brussel's pettinesse delusion ...
I am just a failed duke Armstrong drawing parodies
of desires on walled streets...
Godsend for the hanged who wake up with a poker face !
The midnight dealer knocks always twice
and weary flutes accompanies the hearse joyful entry ...
Turns the ferris wheel but the clouds aren't afraid of gidinness...
Jerries have left by taking all the pralines .
Japs are eating Belgian fries thinking they're french...
I am in the outback of the nowhere .
Wrecked musician from a no-country
who keeps on living as if the world still existed ....
-
Author:
lorenz (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: May 26th, 2026 10:48
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 7
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments4
The poem carries strong mood of alienation , artistic inadeqaucy and urban loneliness .
We all are disconnected musician ....
Nicely done
A few touch of elegant urban decadence...
Brussels spleen - the same mixture of rage and vulnerability hidden behind cynicism, in a distinctly Brel-like emotional register.
Thanks for mentioning this great Belgian singer and songwriter !
In a circus there is always cotton candy, get the pink one the other is an imposter.
A thought the zen master would not have disapproved of !
Stay in the pink
Thank you master !
Lorenz, “I am in the outback of the nowhere . / Wrecked musician from a no-country” absolutely stayed with me. That line crystallizes the whole drifting identity of the poem...disconnected from nation, certainty, success, even time itself. It’s weary, ironic, and strangely beautiful all at once. Powerful work, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Belgian surrealism as an art of survival ...
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