170 syllables

something to the left of me about to end the world in H-minor

by my right foot's halo a beetle that should have died before winter

in my left nostril a prophet talking of a blooming red desert

lifting my arm to draw a circle of air for the last bird looping

in my right ear I make a bed for nomadic penguins and planets

from my navel I extract a galaxy of rubber stars in May

signing the sky on it's far side like YK now he's doing reds

IKB and a faulty fall into the tank with sleeping fish and weed

between the chairs a caravan of souls heading for Dwarka to rest

folding shadows into cranes a hundred times or more like time beasts

ear yummy

primitive stereo

McCartney's bass rolls potatoes

on Lucy

it's getting better?

warm milk and honey

will fix the hole

perpetual dusk

she's leaving home

with Pepper's crew

4000 black holes

with a little help my mind

can fill a car

changing lights

I record a recorder

in a wlarus

goodmorning goo

within you without you flies

Mr. Kite

foolless hill

Henry the Horse runs off

with the meter maid

My Favourite Things - ku sequence

My Favorite Things

spiraling off incense sticks My Favorite Things Coltraneian

left one shoe in a raga in Harlem

Lady Morphine in A-Minor this sleep in longing

what the hell's with these birds? my left head turns

the falling upwards of feet not mine and a half-smoked cigarette

not fair the song doesn't exist unless I hear it

between the bricks a view to another dance

tuck me in with a needle in your eye

dressed in flames she merges with organs

singular plurality music bound by time and trouble

carving a shenai from a bone once in God's thought

no snakes to tame the untameable a basket of rotting grapes

household fairies in ampuls barely glass

the lark's nest

December light?

I remind myself

there's a first

for everything

long before I began to wake up my brain was singing a song. it was a song for children one every school boy and girl have been singing since the 1920's I guess (the composer died in 1931) and one I have sung hundreds of times as a boy. but it (my brain) could remember the first verse only. I was rather annoyed by those missing words and by the song that interrupted a warm and intimate situation just beginning to be very hot between me and a girlfriend I had in my teens but her face turned into an ipad on which I began to look for the missing words of the song. it was a song about a girl finding a lark's nest and keeping it a secret for the fox and the boy.

ground coffee 3900 light years from Canis Majoris

the parcel

"What's in it?"
"What's in what?"
"WHAT is in it?"
"You're repeating yourself. I haven't got the faintest idea of what you're talking about."
"What is in that box there?" he said and pointed to a small parcel lying by the window.
"I don't know. I haven't seen it before."
He walked over to the window and looked at it curiously and a bit distrusting. He bowed down to study it. The parcel did nothing.
"Go on then. Take a look."
"HA! Funny man, eh?"
I knew very well he couldn't touch it, couldn't examine it. As a rather fleeting and etherial being he couldn't interact with that world which is physical to me, to us.

the-whole-in-the water test
an uncaring moon
plops

"You open it and show me what it is".
"Why? I'm busy doing other things and besides if it was important I'm sure whoever put it there would have said something".
"Busy!? That'll be a first. Drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes isn't exactly "busy"". Come on, pleeeease".
"I'm reading a book too" I said licking my thumb and forefinger to turn over a page demonstratively loud. He wouldn't be able to.
"Pf" he said and raised his head. He stood with his hands behind his back, swaying back and forth on his feet and began to whistle "Le Marseillaise" very loud.
I said nothing. I rather - and not very kindly - enjoyed his frustrated state. He was getting more and more tense but that's how it is when you really really want something you can't get anyway near and it's just under your nose.

under the cloud of unknowing I don't open my umbrella

"If you don't behave I'll turn out the light and then you what will happen"
"Wanker" he said but he knew that would mean he'd just merge with the other shadows.

3 haiga

 

 

days of being wild (in moderation) - haibun

and I hear this faint rhythm in a sharp note just about to me out of my range of hearing like someone throwing small small stones on the floor which is why it's not that precise or even and I mute the tv and close the window so I won't be disturbed by the neighbour's goldfish pond it must be leaking a hose spits water into it day and night

too weird I've been watching 3 films by the Hong-Kong director Wong Kar-Wai or Kai-War Wong whatever and typically me I watched the 3rd of this (unintended?) trilogy last and I got sorta annoyed by the main character and his arrogance lack of empathy eating and throwing away women and so on which probably was part of the director's intentions that guy just hung around all day in a humid Honk-Kong getting money from his adoptive mother and obviously not being capable of appreciating other feelings than his own ennui … well what the heck

and I manage to locate the sound it's from the computer in the other room playing a tabla solo by Zakir Hussein I was reorganizing music on the mp3-player and must have clicked on something and no the rain in Denmark doesn't fall in teentaal

it's title days of being wild suggested something other than this slow lazy film with wonderful camera work and long scenes full of rain and a decadent young man hanging indifferent on a sofa lying on a bed or combing his greasy hair while a scorned girl was screaming somewhere in the tiny apartment as dirty as … but I guess it's a cultural difference or a bit of irony it's a great flick and it wasn't the last time I watched it

as usual I can't decide what to leave on and what to replace I go for jazz fusion and Indian music that's what I listen to after all and next time I sit on a train listening I'll probably think it's a totally boring selection if I know me (which I'm gradually getting better at)

so I went to the low-prize supermarket just around sundown to get a few things I forgot the first time and there behind the counter the spitting image of the actor the spitting image I tell you I was just about to say Hey fantastic movie but I didn't

gravitational pull

a photon sticks

to my cornea

red eye

Betelgeuse is never

on stand-by

a bite of heaven

abide a bite of heaven in a toothless mouth

you don't have to answer but have you ever thought about that what we're doing when we do stuff is filling out the time of waiting before enlightenment and moksha and seeing that we were born and now we have to got through all kinds of motions and moods and heartbreaking or toe-wringing events like holding a girl in the hand though all your pals think girls are stupid

abiding a biting off the far corner of paradise

but you find out you really like girls of almost all varieties but you still haven't the biology to know 'what to do' with them (there it is again: DO! DODODODODO) and you a vague feeling that this could be something that would make the wait bearable and years later you know you were right

yellowing lacewing Chagall's goat plays off key

and you end up seeing through things and that what you do between birth and death is just making time pass in the least inconvenient way but that takes some practise and you're a slow learner you didn't die young though you had all the chances to so you decide not to be in a waiting position/mode any more but do something worthwhile life is more than waiting it's also grabbing hold of it ceasing the day and so on

low sun cars pull up for the Friday dance

and you grab the phone to let your nearest and dearest know but they're not picking up it's 3.30 AM and you dig out a cigar you bought last Christmas the one where you didn't snow in and smoke in peace

half a moon the folks downstairs fight over the dog

and ... a haibun sequence

the goat is shaved smoking 'neath the blue moon

it's the kind of life when you put your leather jacket on as the second thing the first is searching through the ashtrays for a dog-end you can light without burning your nose

an umbrella of jelly-fish the heavens stay in place

and you get a call from an animal welfare organization wanting your money under the - faulty - pretext that you like animals pets and such and want your sausages to have had a good life before they become part of the food industry

your cobweb heart someone didn't tell you

and you finally get up and find some real fags and while the kettle boils you check the table for dead insects they choose to end their lives in the night leaving you to pick up the pieces and you wonder why they are so hard to love unlike cats and dogs and hamsters and

unsafe floor a fleeting god escapes the rain

and despite your efforts objects never stay in place not the ones you need to and not in the places you put them and pouring water on the ground coffee a voice on tv talks about the rain you see out the window

autumn a million beetles digging canals under your skin

you can still blow smoke rings even though the missing moles make them a bit more floppy not as firm as your exhaled smoke used to be a coffee ring on the book you've given up on

through the tear duct your innermost worm is passed on

and you have this la-la insight that you don't have to kill yourself life will do it for you boredom suffocating on emptiness nailed to the floor by bad decisions you name it and a little bird bumps against your window with a thumb and you have cigarettes and coffee and what more my soul

haiga book

I uploaded a book containing an experiment with black and white images and bilingual ku to issuu
Read it here

Quadruple parallel

(some) self-medication

self-medication I lie down on my shadow

in the lonely-chair a hollow crow is the oracle

self-medication an ocean at the end of my (yellow) finger

the steps in the gravel towards noon

self-medication one step sideways at noon

a rusty screw-driver picks my locked places

self-medication the rain the rain rains

not at all as I … brushes yet to be cleaned

self-medication spirits white or black just spirits

on days like this the train can be heard

self-medication Astrud's “coração” repeated

we did curve once now even more

another dream self-medication as a mud-ladder

by the end of the day wet paper on the eyes

New book

"Paper Bell Lesson / Papirklokkebelæringerne" is now available in print at CreateSpace eStore: https://www.createspace.com/4317382 

In a week's time it'll be available at Amazon too


Free dowload/read (e-book)
Scribd

Issuu (flip book)

coins - a haibun

Coins

dans les bras de Morphée a kiss evaporates

While I'm looking for a camera that would enable me to film some living coins a hitherto unknown nephew starts building a house around me. It's not that I was out in the open before he began. I was going around my business following this idea of making this film of actually living coins, two I found in a drawer. They weren't alive when I put them there some 20 odd years ago, but apparently something happened in the meantime. My wife (she is my wife in this dream) is in a room I cannot see looking for a job. It's mandatory. She has to to get unemployment benefit. In the dream as in real life. Obviously it's not her dream.

closed ice-cream shop

we queue up

for nothing

It takes me quite a while to find the camera. I know what it looks like (and it's nothing like a camera, more like a cheap microphone from the 70's; that's dreams for ya) but I can't find it. It's that feeling: you know what the missing thing is, what it looks like, where you think you have seen it, where you put it the last time you used it, what the drawer/box/closet/cupboard smelled like. But it just isn't to be found. Gone, it is.

I began looking for it in my usual flat surrounded my the usual mess but as nephew X was building the flat became a house and the house was now in the city and not in the village I live in. More and more family members and friends I haven't seen for years began walking around in the house. They all wore summer clothes and drank their preferred drink from plastic glasses. At least my sense of season is in sync.

3.47

that's when

the blackbird

starts singing

At long last I find the damn camera but then the house is full of people I'd rather spend time with than with coins, alive or not. The dream-nephew finish his work by painting all the walls white.

hot morning

a couple splits up

beneath my window

chant/work song/mass-line - experiment

night train

from nothing a couple of shakes [seeing god on the train] […] the on/off existence of villages. flash. can I where your dog / a face lit by a phone [hush] your scent. a lonely-chair. the absence of sky at night |talk don't talk remind me don't remind me. hold | fructose. a flock of dolphins at the all night gas station. rain pass don't pass me by. this tree has leaves in summer [slept too long the day is broken] up my nostrils almond oil and your juices add me to the list of emigrants | your piece of the ground 25 dog-ends a crushed snail | a fable about the young earth and a dream of innocence some Chinese or whatever has woven the fabric we sit on [press “stop” and mind your luggage] down pressed down. a note with “sor ..” just readable

 

Slime Monday

a hatful

of head

discussing the significance of skid-marks in a self-proclaimed prophet's underwear theorists reach a point where for a king to be a certain and named king who died in a joust for him to be that king which is supposed to be the one mentioned in a certain prophesy he must have been someone else if we don't take into account that just by putting this vision onto a page and publishing it thus making it spread to thousand of living vibrating minds in itself will influence the future in such a way that the king wasn't king or even a human being but an apple with two cores ...

and

angelless

feathers

I zap on to another programme where a man back in the 1970's win 64.000 kroner by answering a question about rare stamps

I draw

the card

of the Fool

           slime Monday

          (not mentioned in the calendar)

           a lead snail sucks up

           the blue

           of the sky

one red aphid

in a cloud

They spend five and twenty years on all kinds of studies to predict what eternity might look like. Radio telescopes, giant stethoscopes, X-rays and plastering it over with ultrasound gel, sonar pings, paper aeroplanes, waxed swan’s wings, tin cans wrapped in tinfoil and ... you name it.

of
green
aphids

Having done what they could and assumed what was reasonable they reached only one point of agreement, one thing they could say with 75% certainty: eternity is pale green and has thick carpets. Two points on which they could agree.

my fave
is the red one

Thursday
I put my hammer to work
on Livjatan

some haiga

Published in Note from the Gean 21, July 2013

Published in Note from the Gean 21, July 2013

New book / Ny bog

 

My book of bilingual linked hariku: ”notes 10 11 -12 / noter 10 11 -12” has been published by Yet To Be Named Free Press.

”Here, at its best, is Bjerg's unique ability to jump effortlessly from mythology to everyday life. A book of haiku that modestly tips its cap to traditional Japanese literature, while remaining authentically Danish throughout.  It is the perfect companion for the imagist stranded on a desert island. ”

Brendan Slater, writer and publisher

--*--

Min bog med lænket haiku i to sprog: "notes 10 11 -12 / notes 10 11 -12" er blevet udgivet på Yet To Be Named Free Press.

"Her på sit bedste, er Bjergs unikke evne til at springe ubesværet fra mytologi til hverdag. En bog med haiku, der beskedent tipper sin kasket til traditionel japansk litteratur, men er ellers autentisk dansk. Det er den perfekte ledsager for en imaginist strandet på en øde ø. "

Brendan Slater, writer and publisher

http://www.yettobenamedfreepress.org/2013/07/notes-10-11-12-johannes-s-h-bjerg.html



My own Intro:

The poems in this book may have the outer appearance of the haikai linked forms “rengay” and “yotsumono” but they don't necessarily follow the “internal” rules of said forms and they are written by one person and not by several. I merely took the structure of these as a skeleton on which to hang these somewhat diary-like notes written during the months of October and November 2012. Reading them again I see the dynamism of outer reality in dialogue with my inner ditto - my mind processing impressions from various sources scattered across time. Said in another way: it's just me sitting in a couch in Kali Yuga jotting away ...

--*--

Digtene i denne bog fremstår måske som de lænkede haikia former ”rengay” og ”yotsumono” i den måde, de fremtræder på, men de følger nødvendigvis ikke de ”indre” regler, som ligger i disse, og de er skrevet af én person og ikke af flere. Jeg brugte blot strukturerne som et skelet, som disse dagbogs-agtige noter fra oktober og november 2012 kunne hænge på. Når jeg læser dem igen, kan jeg se dynamikken i min bevidsthed mellem den ydre virkelighed og den indre ditto - min bevidsthed, der behandler indtryk fra forskellige kilder spredt ud over tiden. Sagt på en anden måde: det er blot mig, der sidder i min sofa i Kali Yuga og skribler …

3 two line ku

Cheese Burger - haibun

homecoming swifts

you see! air-tunnels

do exist

There's a first time for everything. I guess the saying goes for ”things” in a human life. On a grander scale … I couldn't say. But for the first time in my life stretching for over half a century under the influence of American culture I buy a cheese-burger. I buy a cheese-burger and eat it. Some things happens just once in a lifetime. Like me buying and eating a cheese-burger.

still to the South a star I can't name

Ideally I'm a vegetarian but I get too air-headed if I don't once in a while devour some (supposed) muscles of an animal. Given the nature of modern food industry, I can't really be sure whether the meat hidden between the two halves of assumed bread really is bovine. All winter and spring a gigantic scam has rolled across Europe exposing horse meat in what was sold as cow. Well, if you buy cheap, you get mostly imitations of the real thing, and the real thing is really expensive these days.

for what it's worth we date in Plato's cave

Home again I make an Ayurvedic herbal cleansing drink.

Black and White Cat - haibun

I must be scary.

Returning from the super I set one foot (the right, I think) on the first step of the stairs to my flat, and a black and white cat gets utterly surprised and jumps straight out into the air barely avoiding a parked car (not mine, I don't have a car, it's the folks' downstairs) one story down and scurries off through the grass (standing very tall in that untended corner of the property which I could use for a vegetable garden if only the owner once and for all would see to that the weeds are removed and the soil planned I would tend the plot if only he'd see to those basic things but he won't I don't have the money for the tools needed I made him the offer when I moved here but he apparently doesn't think it's worthwhile he has been trying to sell it off since then but you can't really use plots of that size located in an odd place in the village for anything it's quite elongated and not very wide and a lot of lilac trees would be hidden if someone built a house there) and through the hedgerows (lilacs, you know).

day of silence

I put bits of potato

in the tobacco pouch

Why the cat was up there? I keep a bowl with dry cat food up there. It's a habit from the years when the couple downstairs (not the ones living there now they're different the former residents) had 7 cats at one time. Most of them were rather cuddly and sociable so I kept my front door open most of the summer so they could enter if they so wished) lived there. This black and white cat must have been hungry. The other wild cats now eating my food hears my steps in the gravel and runs down the stairs before I reach it. But not this one.

Kenyan coffee

the beginning of all things

could be alive

The Bore Monster - haibun

Was juuuuust about to go out for a walk in the sunshine when a guy came through the wall (the one facing the inn) and yelled:

”Don't go!”

”Why not?”, I heard myself ask in calm voice. Apparently I wasn't surprised.

”You simply have to stay in. He's out there, you know!”

”Who?”

”HIM!”

He reached into his pocket for smokes though his lungs sounded like a sick bagpipe.

“Who's HIM?”

“Him or her, what do I know? I won't go into a lengthy discussion about sexes in language. iIt's easier calling it him. The Bore Monster!”

“The Bore Monster? What's that? Some sort of pig demon with tusks?”

“Ah man, get real! He's in Singapore these days. No, the I'll bore-you-to-death monster. That there thing that jumps you when you go round the village where nothing happens and everything is so small and bland and dull and predictable and you don't meet any people and ...”

“Sorry to butt in, but did you have coffee yet?”

watched by a satellite

I carry Ben Webster

in my pocket

Legion - haibun

Legion

"So, there's all these people getting off on nature. Dreaming romantics, I'd say"

"What's wrong with that? It's fairly normal and nature is wonderful. To some"

"It's boring. Hellish boring!"

"You're nature, I'm nature. When it comes down to it everything you can think of is nature in some way or another"

"Yeah, and my shit is nature"

"Man, you're a cynic, you are"

night train

I'm a blind eye

in a glowworm

There's no point in taking this further. We never reach an agreement, Gerald O'Mudd and I. We live in the same house (with some other guys coming and going) and have settled for this unsettled friendship. He is me as I am him as is Giovanni Monte, Janez Gora and Karl Kornmutter. We're each others alter-egos, you could say; with me paying the rent.

flapping its wings

a bluebottle asks me

to open the window

Later:

humming fridge

just enough light around

to cast a shadow

"I mean, it's like religion: they like to picture that it's all beautiful. They don't see the down-sides like they don't consider giant centipedes eating your insides in a guano filled cave in New Guinea ... and they use it as an excuse not to deal with their immediate reality"

"What has that got to do with anything?!"

No answer. Gerald rolls another one of my cigarettes.

"Get your own", I say.

"Are you stupid or what? I'm imaginary, a figment of your inability to integrate all your different "tracks of mind", as you call 'em. Dick head! Anyway, there are no shops open in this shitty village, as you know, and even if there was, they don't carry our brand of tobacco, do they!?"

He's right, of course.

-*-

Legion

”Suk, alle de dér mennesker, der synes natur er såååå fantastisk. Drømmende romantikere, du”

”Hvad er der galt med dét? Det' rimeligt normalt og naturen er vidunderlig. For nogle”

”Den er kedelig. Ind i helvede kedelig”

”Du er natur, jeg er natur. Når det kommer til stykket er alt, du overhovedet kan komme i tanker om natur i én eller anden grad”

”Ja, selv min lort er natur”

”Mand, du' sgu da en kyniker”

nattog

jeg er et blindt øje

i en Skt. Hans orm

Der er ingen grund til at vade mere i det. Vi bli'r aldrig enige, Gerald O'Mudd og jeg. Vi bor i samme hus (sammen med nogle andre gutter, der kommer og går) og vi er enige om at være uenige i det her venskab, generelt. Han er mig, som jeg er ham ligesom Giovanni Monte, Janez Gora og Karl Kornmutter. Man kan sige, vi er hinandens alter-egoer; jeg er ham, der betaler huslejen.

flappende vinger

en spyflue spø'r mig

om jeg vil åbne vindue

Senere:

køleskabet brummer

lige lys nok her

til at kaste skygge

”Jeg mener, det er ligesom religion: de ser kun det, som de bilder sig ind er vidunderligt. De ser ikke bagsiden ligesom de ikke tager kæmpetusindben, der gnaver i dine indvolde i en guanofyldt hule i Ny Guinea i betragtning ...og de bruger den som en undskyldning for ikke at forholde sig til deres her-og-nu virkelighed”

”Hvad har det med noget som helst at gøre?”

Intet svar. Gerald ruller én af mine cigaretter.

”Køb dine egne” siger jeg.

”Er du dum eller hvad? Jeg er en indbildt person, en luftspejling af din manglende evne til at integrere alle dine forskellige ”bevidsthedsspor”, som du kalder dem. Nar! Der er sgu alligevel ingen åbne butikker i den her lortelandsby, og selvom der var, har de ikke vores mærke tobak, vel?”

Han har selvfølgelig ret.

Spanish Melons / Spanske meloner

Spanish Melons

Fumbling my radio in a new moon night I delete all the preset stations. "All" is a big word; I live in Denmark and we ain't got that many to choose from. Besides, I get more and more picky with music as I age. At least with the stuff the radio stations play. If it's not stupid, flat, mass-produced pop crap, it's stupid unmusical and monotonous rap or a narrow-minded choice of classical ... At least the jazz station gives me some joy once in a while.

Spanish melons

a girl I've forgotten

dressed for spring

I finally get my faves punched in again and go for a piss. On the way back to bed I decide to watch 8 1/2 instead. Fellini might give me better dreams .

after the Ascension

I play my worn

humdrum

-*-

Spanske meloner

På en nymånenat fumler jeg med min radio og kommer til at slette alle de stationer, jeg har lagt ind som faste. ”Alle” er et stort ord; jeg bor i Danmark og vi har ikke det store udvalg, og derudover bliver jeg mere og mere kræsen m.h.t. musik, efterhånden som jeg ældes. I hvert fald med hvad der kommer ud af radioen. Hvis det ikke er mudder-hjernet poplort, er det umusikalsk dumt rap eller et snæversynet udvalg af klassisk … I det mindst gi'r jazzkanalen mig en lille optur indimellem.

Spanske meloner

en pige jeg har glemt

i forårstøj

Jeg får dog lagt kanalerne ind igen og går ud for at pisse. På vej tilbage til sengen får jeg lyst til at se 8½ i stedet. Fellini kan måske give mig bedre drømme.

efter himmelfarten

flytter jeg stolen tilbage

til trummerummet

No Wind / Ingen vind

No Wind

like always the dandelions exploded into bloom overnight it's sort of limbo (like the catholic one totally imaginary) being stuck here between inner and outer reality and having no drive in applying romanticism I could say I'm a ship at sea with no wind but I won't instead I go to the super for milk and stuff as usual I say no to the receipt and joke that she could fold it into an airplane

day of ascension

my yawns get

still longer

-*-

Ingen vind

som altid eksploderede mælkebøtterne i blomst over natten det' en slags limbo (ligesom den katolske version aldeles imaginær) at være kørt fast her mellem den indre og den ydre virkelighed uden drive hvis jeg skulle udtrykke det romantisk kunne jeg sige at jeg var et skib til havs i vindstille men det gør jeg ikke i stedet går jeg til supermarkedet efter mælk og diverse som sædvanlig takker jeg nej til kvitteringen og spøger med at hun kan folde en flyver

kristi himmelfart

mine gab bliver

stadigt længere

Attenborough - a haibun

Attenborough

I start the mantra and fall asleep. Half an hour later I'm woken by loud buzz and reconfirm (like another Attenborough) the fact, that evolution hasn't yet taught bumblebees how not to be tricked by windows.

high humidity

I wait for the rock

to start

the conversation

Attenborough

Jeg starter mantraet og falder i søvn. En halv time senere bliver jeg vækket af højlydt summen og får genbekræftet (som en anden Attenborough) det fakta, at evolutionen endnu ikke har lært humlebier, hvordan de undgår at blive snydt for vinduer.

høj fugtighed

jeg venter på at stenen

starter

samtalen

Bladder / Blære

Bladder

The first thing I notice as I get home is a great big wasp crawling on the floor. I'm still wearing shoes so I step on it and wriggle my foot. I hate them! The stingy back of the darn thing is still whole so I pick it up with a pair of tweezers. It goes in the ashtray. Wasps sometimes come down from the ceiling when the weather gets warmer. Drowsy. Last autumn I asked the landlord to check. He came, saw and sprayed some poison around, though he said there was no sign of them in the attic.

up again

the neighbour's fountain

animates my bladder

-*-

Blære

Det første jeg ser, da jeg kommer hjem, er en kæmpestor hveps, der kravler på gulvet. Jeg har stadig sko på, så jeg træder på den og vrikker med foden. Jeg hader dem! Den forbandede tings stikkende bagdel er stadig hel, så jeg samler den op med en pincet. Den ryger i askebægeret. Hvepse kommer sommetider ned fra loftet, når vejret bliver varmere. Søvnige. Sidste efterår bad jeg værten om at undersøge det. Han kom, kiggede og sprøjtede med noget gift, selvom der ikke var nogle at se oppe på loftet.

op igen

naboens springvand

animerer min blære

Milk / Mælk

Sitting in front of one my old paintings I get faint flashes of the person who painted it. I recall the smell of the damp apartment I had back then. Then I try to get a conversation going, but I'm not listening to me. I can't say whether I'm happy or sad about how things turned out and drink a glass of milk to settle my stomach.

Outside in the night (as if it wasn't inside the flat) a couple of drunks are shouting. They seem happy.

falling and rising I'll make a friend of the floor yet

–--

Jeg sidder foran et af mine gamle malerier og får svage glimt af personen, der malede det. Jeg husker lugten af den fugtige lejlighed, jeg havde dengang. Så prøver jeg at få en samtale i gang, men jeg lytter ikke til mig. Jeg kan ikke sige om jeg er glad for eller ked af, hvordan tingene endte med at blive, men jeg drikker et glas mælk for at få maven til at falde til ro.

Udenfor i natten (som om den ikke var indenfor i lejligheden) er der et par fulderikker, der råber. De lyder glade.

falder og rejser mig jeg skal nok blive venner med gulvet

Yippee

This part of the city is being ”beautified”, as they call it. It means the council takes down old buildings and put some short-lived crap up that's way too expensive for normal folks to live in. And, from what I've seen, they'll be designed to minimize individuality. They'll probably have a terrible indoor climate as well. In the process they've removed the bench where a homeless woman have lived for half a year. She now sleeps on a mix of old chairs.

It's round midnight and I drink coffee.

At least I got to teach my two year old grandson to shout: “Yippee, it's granddad!” today.

flickering North star

I add “light bulbs”

to the list

Undies

Chains. We apparently need chains. Today is Liberation Day when we celebrate the end of the German occupation of Denmark in 1945. Usually it is - or was - marked by putting candles in the windows as they did back then to mark the end of forced blackout. Now very few folks are still alive to remember and we take our freedom from armed tyranny for granted. Windows are mostly lit by the blue light from TVs these days. Our chains are different: debt, fashion, consumerism and nurturing a feeble self-image.

I put today's and yesterday's undies in a plastic bag. After all, I'm only visiting.

dinner time

my grandson becomes

a tiger again

Aliens

It's not like it matters, that there moonshine. Though it sorta fits cinematically in with my insomnia and my sense of loneliness, it's still a stage requisite. I forget it as easily as rain or past constipations rolling another cigarette. What is more immanent is the fact that I'm nearly out of my fave rolling paper and I have to go away for a few days. I usually order a special kind of paper from a web-shop. It's a non-bleached and very thin paper, but if I order it before I take off, the package will arrive while I'm away and go back to the shop. Better to wait till I get back. I have half a box of some paper I bought by mistake. It's a bit thicker and chlorinated and the smokes taste less of the good tobacco and more of paper (hand-rollers will know what I mean) when I use that. Two things one shouldn't play with: the tobacco you're used to and the paper and the coffee brand ... three things. On the telly some aliens are hired to pick out hopeful youngsters to play pop stars. I switch to a program about canons in WWII. Maybe that will tire my brain enough.

"Chock Insecticide

with flower scent" - at least

it's a fragrant death

going home

guess what album I listened to on my way home

magical mystery tour
dad almost turn out
a ghost driver

night train fool on the hill fool in my head

perfume clouds girls flying on e

halfway to nowt a blue jay de-feathered

frying meatballs
mum sings a song
her mother knew

drunken teen he is me like I am him the walrus

hello
a boy leaves
walking backwards

taking me down strawberry hats of lead

rain a penny for every lane I walk alone

human zoo a rich man calls himself "Baby"

knowing what I need and live pale penguin

NaHaiWriMo posts from January 2013

post xmas fridge

a green popsicle

screams to the void

10 minutes more daylight sleeps on the stairs

winter fog

and one step

sideways

I cross my

fingers in boredom

and winter fog

again this year the window full of winter fog

a flute

in the thicket

the loved one

approaches

heart

beat

beat

beat

milk

in her

hand

beneath an orange sun

an ochre ogre plays

Johnson's blues

patching up

old wellies

this fog

has no end

finding my sandals on top the tv I contemplate moving

a candle before Vishnu fog rolls in in waves

this damp winter

sounds seem to have gone

under ground

sweeping the stairs (and maybe the stars) I let a wind go

tea with Patanjali -

the Patriarch bends to pry

a sutra from his shoe

walking with Patanjali

the Patriarch admits jealousy

towards his pet clouds

hot dog stand -

Patanjali tells the Patriarch

the sutra for sweetening ketchup

neti, neti -

Patanjali shows the Patriarch

the non-being of a hot-dog

lamb chops my head back on my neck

small talk with a flamingo

there aren't any chairs left

in the crying-room

steak and potatoes clouds settle as mountains

sombre reptiles along the tracks to Amygdala

at a turn in the bowel a protein and sugar house

it's one of those days

Gale rearranges

the garden

in a white world

I brush water-fluff

off the firewood

bricking up the gates of Heaven

we build

with first thrown stone