The Manifesto of the Repressed

We are not really sure we have the right to have this manifesto.

If we do, we hope it’s okay to say what we want.

We intend to cause nobody any harm and we are sorry if it does.

We wonder how many rights can we have, is there a number limit?

Some people think we are talking bullshit and they may be partly right.

The people who are partly right, insist they are fully right and we may agree with them.

We actually think everything is fine and there is no need for this.



I am Sunshine he said, shaking his long loose curls that glistened with sparkling bits. I only have a black crayon, she replied. That’s okay, he whispered, marvelling at her smile. Soon she got to work, first she coloured his sun nice and black. He began to feel a bit cold. Without pausing, she continued. His face, his arms, his legs, his chest, his knobby knees and his stick-like calves, they were all black now. Satisfied, she looked at her handiwork and asked excitedly, what do you think? He didn’t reply. Bored she walked away, leaving him on the floor.

He didn’t feel like sunshine anymore. He didn’t even feel like gloom. Bits of his sunshine-ness tried to escape, but the black crayon was thick sludge pressing it all down. He stayed quiet without moving, accepting the blackness. When he was totally quiet, without a murmur of escape left in him, a black crow came.

He began pecking the crayoned sunshine. He loved its slight metallic, acerbic taste on his tongue. Yum, yum, yum, he ate all the black away, leaving behind Sunshine as he was before. He even took a nibble of Sunshine, but finding him too sweet, flew away quickly, dreaming of a whole bowl of black crayon shavings.

Sunshine slowly got up. Stretching a limb he checked himself. He seemed all right, except he knew in his heart he wasn’t glittering like before. Somehow the now invisible black had cast an eternal shadow, grey and just a finger-touch away from reality.

The girl came back again skipping and exclaiming, I’ve got a blue now, would you like a nice blue sky? No, he growled. A bit miffed she bounced away holding her crayon high, scribbling all sorts of bluish things in her head.

He watched her go and sighed, a light blue sky would have been lovely.


You were dancing
On six barman’s specials.

I saw you whirl around
Eating up the dance floor
Your flying finger nails
Slightly scrapping a jiggling bottom.

I wondered whether
To be embarrassed
Or love you?

Doing neither
I sipped my drink
And looked deep
Into the barman’s eyes.

Happy Arithmetic Rage

Happy October 23rd
Happy seashells crumbling to compete with sand
Happy suicidal dark clouds in a thunderstorm
Happy rupturing of rash impulses
Happy snotty bowwow trampled cowshit
Happy lurking in the good intentions of half-whispers
Happy moron smiles at sneer-arrows
Happy slurping of shadows thick and tall
Happy clown smile, happy tooth trumpet, happy ear storm
She just didn’t want to say Happy New Year.