Thursday, 22 December 2011

Tuesday, 20 December 2011

Friday, 16 December 2011

(3 onion haiku)

this onion never finishes after all I'm a ordinary man

the banal onion/spirit thing I scratch my bum with a fork

”yeah, yeah, make me cry you onion-thing” I can still whistle ”when the saints ...”

Thursday, 15 December 2011


As soon as my tongue touches it I know I'm licking the wrong side of the cigaret paper; no glue.

Så snart mit tunge rører det, ved jeg, at jeg slikker på den forkerte del af cigaretpapiret; ingen lim.


My fingers are cold. The coffee is cold. I hate winters with or without snow.

Mine fingre er kolde. Kaffen er kold. Jeg hader vintre med eller uden sne.

Wednesday, 14 December 2011

at the other station

At the station I take shelter from the rain in the thrashed shed. Two boys around the age of 14 sit there laughing. They're dressed for winter in a way that suggest that they're not quite grown-ups in their mothers' eyes and maybe not fully aware of – or weighed down by – the dictates of fashion. As they're passing jokes and puns about killer-whales I can't help myself, but join in; or interrupt, actually. We agree that it might be better to freeze to death in the cold water rather than being chewed up. I'm not sure how, but we end up with wondering about what hedgehogs in microwave ovens would be like. Some cruel form of a nail-bomb? It's really boys' imaginations let loose and I don't feel out of place though 40 years older than them. I just enjoy laughing and fooling around after 4 weeks of being locked up with a mean virus.

after coughing a sudden hole in the December clouds

A girl and with an older boy – a young man, rather – join the two boys. They make room for the newcomers on the remnants of the bench. They obviously goes to the same school and the girl is in the same class as the boys though she looks somewhat older. Girls tend to do that in that age. Her hair is dyed, make-up is heavy, a cloud of tacky perfume surrounds her and she is fashionably dressed. The older boy lets her sit in his lap. The boyish boys suddenly get less boyish and more embarrassed as if they try to mature in a matter of seconds. They sit on needles and their winter pale faces - acne and all – takes on a faint red color. No more giggles or killer-whales and I take another mint-drop while they talk about someone in their class. The rails lit up before the train comes around the bend.

edge of the year less and less roses to pick

Tuesday, 13 December 2011

at the station

I seek shelter from the rain in the waiting booth at the station. It has a roof but the sides are partly penetrable and the rain is freezing cold. 12 minutes till the train comes and leaves again. It's the end of a very long and winding track. Two young girls occupies the bench and giggle. They talk about boys and what go give them for Christmas. I stop myself before I suggest: hedgehogs. They wouldn't get it anyway. They decide on articles that were not very boyish in my time, skin-cleaning stuff and perfume. Maybe they hope their boyfriends would smell better and have less acne. What do I know.

An elderly man looking feeble but cocky drags a can of strong beer from his plastic bag. He may have been a gentleman or a womanizer in his days, but now … He glances secretly and repeatedly at the young girls and I have no trouble imagining what he is thinking. As we walk to the train he makes some sort of a pirouette to get a good look at two other girls' asses almost loosing his balance. This was probably his last chance. The dusk has ended.

still no frost
something forgotten sprouts
in the gravel

pale green cosmos / lysegrønt kosmos

As a child I had speculations about how Cosmos really was constructed. I pictured myself and the World as living on a very big person, who in turn lived on an even bigger person along with his family and world and this contruction went on and on. I never thought of it having and end. Curiously enough all these enormous persons were pale green, and we lived on his left big toe.

winter rain
in Moby Dick
a sqashed fly


Da jeg var barn røg jeg ud i overvejelser om, hvordan Kosmos virkelig var indrettet. Jeg så mig selv og verdenen befinde sig på et meget stort menneske, som igen befandt sig på en endnu større person samen med sin familie og verden, og den konstruktion blev ved og ved. Jeg forestillede mig aldrig, at det havde en ende. Underligt nok var alle disse enorme mennesker lysegrønne, og vi levede på hans venstre storetå.

i Moby Dick
en mast flue

Thursday, 1 December 2011

From MY attic 2 - fragments (tbc (likely))

I would hide my smokes in a hole in the side of the terrazzo staircase.

I keep fluxing between my different ages. Maybe time up until the present is fluid. For years I've never been older than 32. Or something.

I keep writing in another language. The one I was surrounded by when I finally bothered making sounds.

These are my hands. They have hold a gazillion things from toy cars to babies, breasts and keys. How well they remember.

I never made money having an opinion.

When she was younger my mother was a girl. My father saw her. She wasn't allowed to cast her shadow anywhere outside without her father's say so.

You were younger. So was I. We cast shadows. But not when we sleep.

Fame is the name of a bug-eaten mud-tiger. Tantalizing.

What really goes on nobody know, but it's started and we can't do nothing; even that is an action. Me and a pal mimed to all his Beatles singles on badminton racket guitars.

There must be life beyond the three chords.

First guitar and totally lost. Second guitar and totally swallowed.

My granddad was everywhere I looked. Smiling and not smiling.

I just hid, or, I just hit. Whatever.

Now I can imagine what mum and dad felt like when I arrived. And I remember my sister's arrival. It snowed a lot that evening.

Memory is biological or reverse: biology has a memory. At birthdays there's cakes and buns with raisins for those who like it.

Presence is not an unambiguous thing or a double negative.

Order is temporary. It's in the order of things. Disorder is a human concept. It has to do with our limited capacity to see the whole – or the hole. What our meager instruments – maths and models – can't grasp we call chaos – or darkness. In short.

These days daylight is sparse. I'm overall on good terms with my feet.

(Could there be a mythology where the World was something barfed up by a giant beast?)