Poem by the the Dutch writer Menno Wigman

 

Rorschach   

There comes a woman, one that’s tall and slim.

She speaks the language. Then a bed. Just right.

She fits just right. Still often needs repeating.

So often that she owns your daily bed,

and you the diary that’s inside her head.

There comes a white-coat with a rorschach test.

Who I might be. What I see in the blot.

What does that smartarse know of dirty tricks?

When I was made I wasn’t even there.

(It was a woman, one that’s tall and slim.

Nervous. Hung up. And idler than a rose.

She spoke with mud. She had to leave my life.)

I read the murder cases in the press.

I had a will. Read blots. Weigh up my skin.