Aske

der finder en ubrudt sansning sted - et sted i verden i nuheds nu
svævende herhed kæmper om derhed men i et hele og som en smule fortabt
tildragelser, erkendelser, inkorporeres på et sorgsårligt tæppe af løseligt forbundne tråde - årsager væves med kendsgerninger til en måske forløsning i klarhed mens natten lader verdener gå under i aske og bjergtagne håb løfter sig over ubekendte bjergkamme med fremtidsgaver om nyhed passeret - på et efterbliks glimt *
afventende landflygtighedens tid

ubrugte hud

kender du det?

vi brænder på en plade af tin
som smeltet medløb -
arv af i går

og ingen at dele med.

mødres sorg
og fraværsfortielse -
kender du det?

vi brænder som kærtegn
på hinandens
ubrugte hud -

helt alene
i skrig -

8. Hønsetyv

8. gang en historie bliver til med ord fra fb-venner. Disse er:
sykofant, væv, florafobi, kælderkold, gummistøvler, kartoffelspegepølse, udsnakket, betydningsfrigøres, Cuba, sigøjnervogn, Det røde hjørne, grundskyld, frydværen, brudeslør, løvehjerte, hønsetyv, Marco Massi


Marco Massi står og vasker op i sit lille køkken mens han gumler på en mad med kartoffelspegepølse tilsat ekstra salt, for det er sådan en dag. Solen står nu endeligt varmende ind ad de åbne vinduer og gårdens rum har højt til loftet. Omkring, fra de andre åbenstående vinduer, høres klirren af service, blød snak og musik, og fra de tilstødende haver pludselige latterudbrud og hvin fra børn i vandleg. Fra en lejlighed sættes C.V.Jørgensen i gang, den sanger havde om nogen dansk sanger bibragt ham en poetisk forståelse for det danske sprog. Det var en sang om en nabo og ens næste så lettilgængeligt og rigtigt men alligevel, verset 'herrens florafobi', hvad pokker betød det? At vi var bittesmå var et faktum, og selvom håb stille sneg sig ind, så havde de forløbne måneder været skarpe og trælse. Med tab, regn og  begrædeligheder.

Hans søn var blevet taget som hønsetyv hjemme på Cuba, en dum sykofant havde sladret selvom hun gladeligt havde købt sine æg hos Marcos søn. Det var selvfølgeligt ikke i orden, at hans søn levede som tyv, men han var umådeligt fattig og boede i en sigøjnervogn med sine 4 børn og kæreste. Og for fanden da også - sladrerøve burde stege i helvede! Men da Marco i aftes havde siddet nede på 'Det Røde Hjørne' og fået sig en kælderkold eller 3 sammen med den rom, der gav ham ren frydværen helt ned i sine gummistøvler, mens han havde udsnakket emnet med HavariMads, havde denne ment, at Marco havde grundskyld i sønnens situation, fordi han (Marco) var her, og ikke der.

Det havde gjort ham tosset, og han havde brølet fra dybet af sit løvehjerte, at HavariMads, fandeme ikke havde noget at lade ham høre. Havde HavariMads måske ikke selv forladt 7 børn og en Ellinor i brudeslør over i Thy?
Det var endt i en halvhjertet nævekamp inden Ulla havde smidt dem begge ud. HavariMads havde fået næseblod, der dryppede ned på hans udbulende overalls mave. Så havde de siddet der, prustende og stønnende på kantstenen, og måtte begge sande, at de var nogle forliste hvaler i verdens umådelige væv. Døren var gået op bag dem, og Ulla havde kastet en spand koldt vand nedover dem. Det havde klaret luften mellem dem. Hun var en klog og dejlig kvinde, Ulla, det var de blevet enige om inden de havde skiltes, og var slingret i hver sin retning.

Og i dag måtte han sande, at det vand havde virket betydningsfrigørende på ham. Der var ikke længere nogen tvivl i hans hjerte, han måtte hjem til Cuba og hjælpe sin søn, med at komme ud af fængslet. Og han måtte hjem til Cuba og hjælpe med de børnebørn han endnu aldrig havde set.
Danmark kunne ryge og rejse som den skønne Helene havde gjort fra ham. Stukket af med en kollega til Sverige. Ja, han ville sælge sin lejlighed, og forlade det land som på det sidste, også var begyndt at se mere og mere skævt til ham og hans farve.
Cuba, cigarer, varm rom - og måske den skønne Rosita, stadig var skøn...

Islington

You spoke of anger. Yours when I played around the pond with Andreyi, and of jalousie when I left town with him. The speech came two months after, when I came back sunburned and fucked. You had spent those two months in agony biting your nails writing your poems and drinking. Yes you had been drinking. I saw that immediately when I returned with my excuses. You hadn’t loved me for quite a while, said so yourself, but apparently forgotten when I left. I couldn't stand the coldness between us anymore so when Andreyi came along, with all his charm, spontaneity and smiles I did soften and went dizzy. Those star nights by the pond with the gang, where you were talking weltsmertz with Simon and I did the swimming and laughing with Andreyi, Fiona, Beatrice, Zamid and Wolfgang, but mostly with Andreyi, we fell in love. Cautious he was, because I were your girlfriend but soon he realised that you didn't acknowledge it like that, if as anything, then merely as a little sister, tired of having around. So very, soon he got more courageous with a little help from me, my heart hard pounding and my eyes went flickering, when he was near me. Those soft strokes under the dark water, the stolen wet kisses and the aura of something only temporary, did made it all look so appealing and interesting. This summer in London, in the house in Islington with far too many diverse travellers banging down walls of nationality, in their mixture of coloured backpacks and cheap sleeping bags I needed attention. Our room with the dark-blue walls, the great bed where so little love were shared that summer and your table with the old red travel machine Olivetti. Surrounded by sadness from the walls never cried tears, it was easy for me to fall in love with happiness and exotic thoughts, presented by Andreyi from x-Yugoslavia so he preferred to call his land of horror and beauty. From Zagreb where he had been an actor-student but he left the country, for a war that he never wanted to fight. He had found a theatre course in London and worked as a dishwasher to pay it of with, but now he was finished and wanted - after the summer - to go back and seek for his family. He was energetic, expressive, and elegant and he had those facial-cuttings I just adore. The lion eyes, the Slavic cheekbones, the fine sculptured nose with the nostrils curving up, his lip had this little cruel and arrogant cut, though it was all destroyed when he smiled. He is in my head, as an image of a summers stolen beauty, but forever gone from my life. We parted in France. It was only temporary. Temporary sadness, do you laugh at me?

I am sitting here in the blue room I do not know where you are, after our talk last night you went out. You feel wounded, so you said. Angry and you were theatrical, I didn't know you had it in you and I didn't know whether it was in the honour of me you made the speech and wandering about the house with those dramatic gestures or it was one of your fictions you where trying of. I do not know, but somehow it just made me numb. You talked about love and commitment, and you talked about how I had stopped loving as the first of us, so I should bear the guilt. What kind of athletic discipline was that performance ... Who loves the most? Is it high or length, wide or short? I had just acted upon your non-love.  Preferred it hadn’t been necessary.

London, Islington 12 Florence Street.

Dear Amber.

It is such a shame that you couldn’t come with me to London, because it’s such great fun. I have met some people who live in a condemned house in the area Islington, it s a house where a lot off travellers hang out and live for while. The guy (Ben) who the house belongs to are forty-five and a strange kind of bohemian with a little second-hand shop in Camden town, he's seldom around and when he is, he is doped. 

There is a Danish couple living here as far as I can understand, they have been here since March. Jan and Trine (yes what a name!) He is a writer, very serious but handsome, he is doing some writing for a Danish magazine. Trine works as a waiter around Angel tube station, in a place with a cafe and a gallery for young 'perhaps up comers' painters et cetera.  I do not think they are all, that happy together, because she's flirting with a Yugoslav called Andreyi I can understand her cause he is far more fun to be with than Jan who spend a lot of the time talking with a Canadian architect called Simon who is so boring and old-fashioned. Apart from the above J mentioned, there are some other people whom I hang out with a great deal, Zamid are a Muslim from France he is not very religious and he is totally fun to go out with. He came to London to visit some family but stayed here, met Ben in Camden and moved in - only temporary - as he keeps saying because he is dreaming about going the States but hasn't yet the money - who will ever get them in this expensive town. I like him a lot and we do a little together, do not tell Robert! Beatrice is also from France she study English and will take a semester here. She is nice but takes a hell of a time in the bathroom. Wolfgang yes of course a German, with the right ecological opinions alas he is fine. He is here, because he met Simon in Berlin where he worked for the company of Wolfgang’s father. Wolfgang dropped out of medicine school because he wants to play music instead, the drums. He plays in Covent Garden at the street with some African Guys who also often come around the house and fill it with music.

On sunny day’s we go to the pond at the Heath or hang out in Camden. I have been to lots of job interview, and finally I managed to get cleaning job at an old people’s home in Finc1ey Central. It is okay. --- Hope you are fine and that you will somehow manage to get down and over here, because I miss you. ‘

Love Fiona.

 
(Her pussy gets wet when I whisper Arabic words into her ear. We do it in one sleeping bag very close and slow. She was first a prude - but by now - wet, wet.)

Suddenly we where so many people in the house and among them were Andreyi, with whom you seemed to have fallen in love with and left me for. I do know, in moments of honest reflection, that I have neglected you emotionally for quite a while, but was it really, necessary to leave me to the point? How come, you couldn't take a crisis in our relationship as an adult? You know that I have been down since my rejection from the publisher. It did take all my energy. I have been so damn tired and all what you have been around for was craving love as a suc1ing baby.  I did just ask for some kind of understanding and perhaps a bit of patience with me, but no - as soon as this fresh guy, which I'm convinced are the way you are looking upon him - came along you were sold to his elaborate charm or whatever he seems to possess.