Dead rabbits are growing like salads.

But they are fucking bastards, without heads.
Waiting for decay while the sun has already risen.
So far away from poetry and what has been said comes back
* uff - 25 uur wakker, het heeft al beter gerijmd - *
that distraction lies in the repetition of the same language
and distraction is the poison not fear not hate not any emotion, baby,
it's distraction and its emotionless, brutal, numbing echoing

A Russian guy once told me that the essence of the current European and American poetry is 1) short 2) doesn't rhime while the essence of Russian poetry 1) long 2) rhimes. Wurst. Because. If it sneaks in between the words and the bodies and the landscapes it brings to surface the in-between and it's good.
Otherwise the bad guys strike as they speak.

Dead rabbits are growing like salads without heads.
Let us be patient though.