in grote kringen
schrijf ik tot in de roos
tot in het mikpunt
tot in het hart van het woord
'rode wonde der waarheid'
openbloeiend als een paasbloem
in dit zo breekbare hoofd

(Eddy van Vliet, uit: Verzamelde gedichten, Het woord heet Alva)

"...Filled to the brim, he is out of the station, into the subway, and then up the stairs,onto the streets, and into his officebuilding. He pushes into the crowded elevator just as the door is closing. He presses 44. As the elevator rises, it fills with the volatile vapors of hot-coffee farts, the fumy flatulence of breakfast cereals, of All-Bran and yogurt, of Egg McMuffin, of sausage on a biscuit. The gaseous display becomes all-encompassing. No one speaks, no one knows who let loose- at least it wasn't Paul. Was it by choice, a kind of kamikaze welcome-to-work terrorist attack, or did it erupt involuntarily? It just gets worse. The noxious intestinal output, the rear-end rocket seems to be of the variety that explodes in sections on a kind of timed delay. Laughing gas, tear gas, mustard gas. Napalm. Paul stops breathing. The elevator rises. On the forty-fourth floor, Paul bursts out, gasping, hoping his clothing hasn't absorbes the spoorish scent, hoping he doesn't stink.
"Good morning," his secretary says. ..."

( uit: 'Music for torching' van A.M. Homes)