thieving
each other's deeds
can’t he see
then he danced
with a bear
they always will
meanwhile all
the tiny black
horses are running
wild
at the Pampas
he lost
his soul – ever
since he has been
searching
while the rest
of the men
went camping.

-  Bruce Chatwin, considered.

det afstumpede væsen

once it was a rose

it has become
the red tulips dance
with us flattering ourself
in the garden of music
together - are we
were we - together
drawing the past in the eyes of
our beloved
whilst everything turned yellow
in the ears of the monkey
did we press our fists into
the eyes of the kids
yet the green tune from the bass
reached for a hopeful tomorrow
united we can - can we

- i'll be there

knoglekassen

kraniekassens mundbue smerter

Kongefod

Kongefødder

dansende

kongefødder

gyldne

kongefødder

med klassiske buer

kongefødder

tramper

lister

aer

løber

kongefødder

med gyldne hår

kongefødder

leger

vrikker

slår sig

kongefod

i mine hænder

kongens krop skælver

kongefod.

Wolves are howling in imaginary streets.

Wolves are howling in imaginary streets.

I’m bored even though my days and nights are full of actions and life itself a doing and a doing and a doing these days.

Longings – oh yes those lovely longings.

Masculine power in me – aggressive and upfront -
not in a bad way just a little impatient with others’ slow decisions –

To be in control and play a chess-game, to see the queen fall to her knees,
And can we please move on –

Thoughts about sex, packed into a small, wine-red suitcase of yesterday. Did it all happen?
It was over so fast – we forgot nurturing, perhaps there wasn’t time to pick up the core…

Summer is closing in - reaching out for the dress of Winter I can see it coming. Did the seeds go rotten before they fell to the ground?
Will the land open up to such a small amount?

Once there was a sword, a sabre, an epee and four skulls on a shelf – whispering their tales during dark nights. These were weapons to magnify their beholders in childish ludicrous ways.
The childish ways were fun to begin with but sad in the end – too many weapons in the kitchen.

El Diablo landed on my back. He used me for a ride.
He wanted me to be his bird – his wings of disguise.
- The paradigm a good witch must avoid.

But first he took my body and swung it violently about – never experienced such a throwing in the air hither and thither. He was to be obliged. What was there to do…?
I was just a puppet in the hands of an evil master. Come on now – you fly for me –
And I did.

At one point the burden on my back grew lighter and I thought – well now he must have fallen away and I’m flying for and by myself.
I turned my face to watch over my shoulder – but there he sat in all his nakedness with goat-like eyes and to my horror he had no eyelids just an eternal stare like a snake – and he said GO ON –

And of course I did – he was the man-thing who had come to kill me – perhaps –
I couldn’t know - but the cards were saying so –

Oblige and you will die
Oblige not and you will die.

And then ahead of us there was this grand window – mountain-sized. And it had curtains, drapes in green. It was a colour hard to like, something like dark, green and sombre mould inducing danger.
And el Diablo forced me to speed up my flying.
And then at tremendous speed he flew us right into the window glass behind the curtain where my head gave space for splintered glass to fall behind curtains and where splintered glass also found my face – and then he laughed –

What a joyous ride he had had.

Then we came to the finale – I knew it was time to die – he wanted to fuck me – and that would be the end. His killing sword would spike me so that I would be doomed as a witch but on the wrong side, his side. Forever doomed in toothless oblivion.

But I was so immensely lucky – a stinking fish had taken up a home in my vagina –
So he left me in disgust.

AND I WAS FREE.

Cyclic awareness. A dream dreamt before the man abroad appeared on the arena.
Not that I’ll give him the costume of el Diablo.
Because el Diablo is el Diablo being el Diablo. Having his own streets of broken glass and broken
dreams. Which are just some of the things that keep him going!

The whispering voice of broken dreams, I got to avoid its calling, because it’s an eternal dance on broken glass.

And I try. And I try. But sometimes the hard-fucking, evil bitch of a witch is smiling to me from the mirror. And I know – well now it’s time to eat a minor again.

But then comes winter – and death is running with tiny horses when snow falls together with crushed teeth filling up my mouth and with the sulphurous sour saliva from the gall. And would you know. Next day I can get up – all dressed in innocent white like a pure bride-to-be – but no, that’s a lie. I can’t dress in white. And I have never been innocent because I was born a very ugly old woman whose quest was to set out for teeth that could fool the world with a smile - Though hard to find.

Am I getting there?
Are you still with me?
In good and in evil?

A blanket is sown from the outer distance – nearing its middle, coming closer to you.
Is there anything but the vastness, the whole, the lot, and the 'you' and the 'I'?

Can we go elsewhere – be elsewhere*?

longitude and latitude

danced together
in a night of green smiles
the heart of a penguin hung
between their lips