Mars

Jeg så Mars igen i dag.
Den hang over horisonten
Så blid og blød
Men ikke en stjerne.

Jeg tænder en smøg.
Det var ikke nattens sidste smøg.
Men en smøg var det alligevel.
Jeg ser ud over byen.
Jeg ser varmedisens flimren
Henover tusinde jordstjerner
Spejlende i den varme luft.
Kan det passe, hver nat skal være sådan her?
Jeg plejede at skrive dagbogsindlæg i en bog.
Så skiftede jeg til computeren.
Så skiftede jeg til bogen igen.
Nu ved jeg ikke hvad der kom først.
Jo, det gjorde bogen, men når jeg skal holde sammen på det hele
Så er det svært.
Det er det sværeste af det svære.

Jeg retter mig op og læser linjerne her igen.
Hvorfor skal jeg skrive det her?
Hvorfor bliver jeg meta?
Er det fordi jeg selv vil se hvad jeg oplever,
Eller er det for andres skyld?
Skal de vide helt præcist hvad jeg tænker,
Eller er de udenfor min sfære nok til at
Det ikke giver nogen mening?
Jeg har før forsøgt mig med lyrik.
Det blev lange sætninger
Og dyrebare ord
Indsvøbt i plastik.

Jeg burde lade være
Jeg ser på en ny flaske
En ny etiket
Det er måske min svaghed
At de er så forbandet smukke.
Dygtigt håndværk kommer sjældent alene.

Kæresten er gået i seng for længst.
Jeg er ikke i en farezone mere
Men jeg ved min egen farezone er overskredet.
Den taler til mig i det fjerne.
Er det ikke ok?
Jeg kan pludselig skrive.
Det kunne jeg ikke før.
Har det noget at gøre med det?

Jeg bliver til nutid
For nutid er før datid
Og jeg skriver nu
Eller nu
Eller rettere nu.

Jeg har lige læst en masse gamle blogindlæg
Ikke mine egne.
Ikke de hjertefyldte
Men noget lignende.
Om at være queer.
Og være ved siden af.
Jeg har en del på hjertet.
Før i tiden ville jeg have grint af mig selv.
Måske slået fast med syvtommers søm
At jeg ikke skulle skrive.
Men jeg har nu ordet i min magt.
På mange punkter.
Jeg er min leg med metaforer
Genkender de fleste scenarier.
Jeg kan se,
At jeg ikke er alene længere.

Klokken er snart 2 og jeg kan ikke sove.
Det er ikke unormalt men det er træls.
Godt gammeldags træls.
På godt jydsk: træls.
Jeg er træt af at jeg ikke kan sove.
Jeg er træt af at jeg ikke kan blive træt.
Jeg er hellere vågen en hel nat for at se solopgangen end at sove.
Hvorfor?
Jeg vil gerne finde ud af hvorfor.
Men jeg nyder nu mest af alt
Den nye udsigt fra mit vindue
Jeg kan se til stadion herfra
Er det statiske, elektriske nordlys
Ikke mere end en skygge
På himlen.
Og jeg kan se Mars igen i dag.

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Unending dream

I glance out of the garden gate

I see the world spin

In one last bliss

While the echoing bombs fall.

 

A tender sharp moment

A hand to grasp

A breath and a sigh,

but still we linger.

 

Minutes tick by like years

The world crumbles away

The open chasm cleaves the earth

And we look into nothingness.

 

One last glimpse of what was dear to me

One last memory of everything I knew

Until I fall and fall.

Into the nothingness.

 

Warmth consumes

Darkness envelopes

I don’t know where the light comes from

But it burns my eyelids

Everything is dark

When I open my eyes.

 

There’s nothing to hold on to

Nothing to see or grasp.

Just endless screams

And the huge blast

Of the bomb behind

And the bomb in front

Burning my face

Like a desert sun.

 

Everlasting destruction

Hell-fire spits out its tongues

Crumbling gates to Heaven and Hell

We’ll all soon be gone.

Nattens Guirlander

Første Guirlande

Skal jeg fortælle alt hvad der er sket

For at folk forstår mig?

Eller er det vigtigere

At fokusere på de få ting i livet,

Der former mig til den, jeg er?

Jeg kan ikke længere adskille dagenes trivialiteter.

Hvis jeg kunne var de for længst smidt over bord

Sammen med rådne Strunge og den gyselige gotik

Som jeg finder fuld af klichéer.

Jeg forsøger at samle tankerne

Der strider afsted i strømme,

Bløde kurvede guirlander

Der former sig som en drøm.

Jeg ved ikke hvor det næste ord bevæger sig hen

Men jeg brækker mig og tømmer min sjæl

Blæk på papir,

Måske er det rødt på grønt,

Kontrastfarver ligesom sort på hvidt

Men dog forskelligt.

For du vil læse det anderledes.

Du vil tolke det anderledes.

Du vil være det anderledes.

Jeg vil være det anderledes.

Er det for meget forlangt,

At jeg er anderledes?

Jeg behøver ikke engang at råbe det.

Nu til dags er der mør og mas

Med at finde sig til rette

I den rette parket.

Man strider hårdt mod hårdt

Mens regnen børster mod hårene,

Og råber kærligt i ørerne

At de er fulde af vand.

Varm luft og perfide gener.

Man bliver tung om hjertet

Når man hører

At der er nye døde krigere

Og savnede helte

Der går til grunde

For en uudgrundelig grund.

Man får aldrig svar.

Man savner altid.

Det gør kun tingene værre.

Jeg rækker hånden ud og lader regnen danse på mine håndflader.

Er stemningen vendt eller glemt eller noget helt tredje?

Jeg sejler min egen sø

Over bebyggelse så nær og fjern

At jeg kan se det med det blotte øje.

Men det tager timevis at komme dertil.

Herfra og dertil.

Det er en livsvandring,

En pilgrimsfærd,

Og for enden venter kun tomme løfter

Fulde strofer

Sang fra et paradis der aldrig bliver.

Det bliver kun fjernere og fjernere.

Som livet farer forbi og vanskeliggører

Alle de ting man ønskede,

Alle de drømme man havde,

Alle de håb men forsøgte at stræbe efter,

Alle de løfter man ikke kunne holde.

Hele verden ligger foran mine fødder

Men jeg vil heller ligge her

I glemsel og sang

Om et fuldt paradis.

 

Livsomspændende Legesyge Hvisker

Han hvisker ikke altid

Det er kun nogle gange.

Når livet er svært

Eller du er hårdt ramt

Af alderdom og fattigdom og trolddom.

Du får ikke din recept stukket i hånden længere.

Alting flyder i en æter af idéer og informationer.

Hvis man kunne se,

En dag, alle de tråde der binder os sammen.

Ikke kun nu men også de forrige.

Hvor meget ville det gøre en forskel?

At man kan se hvordan historien gentager sig selv?

At facebook og Twitter og whatnot gør os dumme?

Gør os hadske?

Gør os fjendtlige?

Racistiske?

Nationalistiske?

Indspist hummus med en tang af salat

På sidevognen ligger resten af det blodlimede kød

Klar til indtægt, klar til fortæring, klar til afsætning.

Højest bydende er de første i rummet.

For de har penge og ved hvad der er godt.

Det siger de selv.

Men når en dag Thors Hammer slår dem ned

Og rammer husets gyldne bjælker,

Kan de give afkald på deres frisør?

Deres chauffør?

Deres interiør?

De ved hvad der er godt

Så længe livet er godt.

Måske kan de tro,

At livet altid er godt?

For det har aldrig været ondt.

Man har klaret sig.

Man har stået igennem.

Men der var altid plads til det,

Vi andre kalder luksus.

Ikke fordomsfuldt,

Næh, såmænd blot en gisning.

En guirlande af de mange.

 

Morgenguirlande

Jeg så solen rejse sig.

En spotlight på livets skuespillere.

Den våde dis ligger tåget hen

Over blygrå himmel og blåligt vand.

Der er stille, som i stille timer.

De timer, du aldrig oplever.

De timer hvor du hører flere mennesker

End du hører maskiner.

Lysreguleringen lyser op

Men standser ingen biler.

Du sukker svagt og tænder en smøg

Og mener hvad du siger.

Du gransker din egen ulyksalighed,

Mens vejrtrækningen i sengen dulmer din smerte.

Du ved ensomhed og tosomhed

Er kommet for at blive.

 

Fremtidsguirlande

Om 50 år er intet som det er nu.

Vi må belave os på den tanke.

Det er ikke apokalyptisk ment.

Det er snarere en state of fact.

Der er ikke noget du kender nu,

Som vil vare ved.

Hverken af egen eller din vilje.

Det hele må ende i et brag.

Det brag der løsner sjælen fra dine knogler.

Sådan går det også alt andet.

Os, andre, alle, det hele.

Alt.

Systemet, samfundet, livets grusomheder,

Den spirende lykke i dit svælg

Der vælger glædestårer frem for dryssende mundvige.

Du skærper dine sanser mod det ufravigelige.

Du træner, du knogler, du spiser sundt og drikker kildevand som honning.

Der er bare ikke andre,

Der har overlevet livet på den måde.

Endnu.

Hvis vi alle så verden i verdens perspektiv.

Stoppede med at tro menneskeopfundne guddomme er mere værd en mennesker.

Hvis vi spolede tiden tilbage,

Ville vi stadig dø.

Måske gladere.

Måske lykkeligere.

Måske klogere.

Men vi ville stadig

Dø.

Death

026Is it the only way out to stop your heart?

Is it really what you want?

To be free from everything that you thought

You’d love right from the start.

 

Is it right to do what’s wrong?

Is it wrong when the feeling is so strong?

To be honest when you just don’t care

Or to be safe when you’re no longer there?

 

Have you thought of the void beyond our now?

Did you get a message from the lonesome crow?

Did a scream escape your lips

When the numbness reached your fingertips?

 

It’s not a long process for you

It’s not a journey to get it through

You can choose to let it end

But what life you may just have spend.

Misguided

Swirling in and out

Stars of regret above

A deep movement within

The sound of a beating heart

Rumbles beneath.

 

Which way am I to turn?

Where did I go and

Where have I gone?

 

The earth twirls quickly

Revolving around illusionary

Streams and spurs

Of laughter and joy

All too far away to see.

 

I just want to give away

And swirl in

My sombre melody.

 

Earth shakes violently

Takes hold of the banging bells

Sporadic panic attacks

Displaying thrashing lies.

 

The deep within itself

Holds no promise

Of love.

 

Everyone is gone

Only you and I

Can fix this.

Scratch

The tick, the itch.

Like the tick of a clock

Then the following itch.

Resemblance was dignified.

Couldn’t miss it,

Even if you tried to.

There was no escape.

The skin seared,

A flickering,

Snakes and slugs crawling

Out of reach from your

Broken fingertips.

If you scratched enough,

It ceases,

But only a moment.

Then it would be back,

Full-blown force

Distinguished from the other feelings of

Your body.

Hair bulged in pores,

Pressing on the surface

To be released,

Only the slow metamorphose

Could relieve the pressure.

It beat upon the blood streams,

Insanely unnerving migraine,

Compelling you to lie still and

Do nothing.

Nothing but scratch

Flaking, clotted blood,

Stuck under the nails.

It pierced the skin.

Wounds appeared

Where wounds

Had not been

Moments ago.

The smell dug

Into nostrils.

Old cow.

Dead pig.

Wet dog.

Heavy and sultry,

The smell of rain

And moist soil.

But also blood.

The stench was inconceivable,

All-time present

Reminder of what was happening.

Mud and blood

Mingled with gun-powder,

Sulphur poured into the

Open cracks

Contaminated

The water-supply of the body.

Veins turned ashen

Blue and black,

Stalled old pipes.

Barbed-wire cut lesions

As deep as trenches

Surrounding you,

Pouring out puss of

Inflamed holes.

The tick, the itch.

Scratch

Serial Number

NSFL. Reader discretion advised. Hannibal-inspired.

Warm and thick it squirted onto his face and trickled down; lashes lumped and the corner of his mouth had a tainted taste all of a sudden. To some it would be metallic, like licking too long on a spoonful of yoghurt. To him it was sweet, like a ripe cherry burnt by a warm summer’s sun, the taste of love, of the soul. With a finger he stemmed the trickle. It was difficult not to avoid the vein, but gradually, at each attempt, he had gotten better at handling its edge. The skin parted quickly now, faster than before, and with precision like a surgeon’s. In the beginning the veins had taken damage as well, causing death way too quickly. But as he acquired a flair for shearing and slicing perfectly, he was now perfectly skilled.

Then again, it was not Annie Lorenzo, who was his prime target. No, she could do with some damage, which was the intention. It was her husband, Leonard Lorenzo, who was supposed to live. At least for a while.

And this he was, writhing and struggling against the restraints around his wrists, eyes terrified as he watched Emmanuel straddling his wife under the bloody bed-covers. Her death cramps and moist coughing sprayed the white sheets with ruby drops of blood. He had severed the sinews of the neck and cut open the trachea, which now filled with blood from the surrounding, damages tissue. His hands rested around her throat, not strangling her but cupping the blood as it slipped over his white, surgical gloves and into the bed; his fingertips caressed her skin soothingly. He could see the fear in her eyes as each cramp gradually stilled and she drew her last breath. Her shoulders slumped; each muscle in her body relaxed and he let go of her neck, releasing the blood into the pillow like a halo of death crowning her.

He straightened up and tossed a strand of his dark hair away from the face before he turned to look at Leonard, a wolfish grin on his thin lips and his grey eyes lusting for more. The blood adorned his face, gems of gory jewels. He grabbed the scalpel from the bedside table, where it had stained the white, laced tablecloth, and moved across the bed to Leonard, straddling him down as well; the bedcovers rustled and mingled with Leonard’s muffled moans of plea through the saliva-drenched cloth in his mouth.

“Are we having fun?” Emmanuel sneered and flicked the scalpel in his fingers. Leonard’s eyes widened, focusing on the scalpel, which sliced into his cheek producing a long, red line, a Cherokee’s war-paint. A drop trickled down the fear-pale skin like a lonesome tear of sorrow. A cry was stilled in the cloth and Leonard closed his eyes, the cold sweat hailed from his furrowed brow.

“No, no, no! You have to look, Leonard,” Emmanuel pinched his eyes open with his left hand. “You have to see, have to watch,” he glanced sideways to the corpse of Leonard’s wife, motionless and soaked in blood. “She will be delicious. A treat. Like candy to your eyes. But first,” he looked back down at Leonard and uncovered his throat and chest, “we have to prepare you. To be quiet. A silent audience for the spectacle you’re about to witness.” He reached down to the bag by the bed, which he had placed silently as he had entered the bedroom. Intrusion had been easy with no children living in their house anymore, and no animals to wake up and alarm the residents. Their evening routine had become his as he had observed them from a distance for a month, preparing the final, building the crescendo as every fiber in his body yearned to be released, yearned for the savage, brutal slaughtering and the delicious aftermath in which he would ascend to divine beauty, taking the virginity of his own career. And he wouldn’t stop once the first act had been finished. No, there would be plenty more to come.

A symphony of Hell.

When the two victims had been properly restrained to their bed, he had covered what he could with plastic and commenced the ordeal. He was baffled at how strong he had become from working out, a physical preparation in accordance with his mental state of being. Both had to be strong to endure the act. And they were. He was flying, a heavenly breeze held his wings aloft and guided him towards the climax.

He punctured Leonard’s trachea with a crude awl from his workshop and forced a hard but thin plastic tube into it, enabling him to breathe, although it would take some time to find the right method to do so. Meanwhile he would remain light-headed and dizzy and Emmanuel could move on back to Annie. He stood by the bed and produced a set of quality butcher knives which he used to slowly cut off the meatier parts of the dead woman’s body. He worked with incredible precision, having practised on animals and the like before, and once in a while he looked up to Leonard.

“No, no. Don’t look away, Leo,” he pleaded softly, put down the knives and went to turn Leonard’s head towards the gory scenery. “See? She will be delicious now, much more than before.” He knew that Leonard would soon pass out from fear and from the loss of blood. It didn’t matter much. He had seen what he needed.

Annie’s corpse lay partly dissected, bones exposed here and there. With a sturdy wire cutter he snapped open her ribcage and pressed the bones apart, exposing her lungs and heart. A few slices were all that was needed to loosen them from their confinement. When he had finished he went into the adjoining bathroom to wash up, taking a look in the mirror and admiring himself. He was glad he had chosen the black uniform that night. He left the bathroom, put on his shoes and went down into the kitchen where he found bowls of this and that size. Whatever could be used for storage he brought with him back upstairs where he began ordering the lumps of meat and put them into their respective containers. Leonard was still alive, barely though, and the tears that streamed down his temples indicated desperate crying. No sound came through the cloth anymore, and Emmanuel grinned at him. He took the heart, which he had put in a silver bowl, sliced off a piece the size of a coin, and went to Leonard, gently removing the now blood-stained cloth.

“Now, you can be whole,” he whispered as he forced the lips apart and placed the meat on Leonard’s tongue before closing the jaws upon it again and again, making him chew and with much difficulty, swallow the piece of Annie’s raw heart. Leonard tried to protest, but blood pumped up from the opening in his throat and all he could conjure was a wet gurgling as he stared at Emmanuel, tears still spilling from the corner of his eyes.

“There, there,” Emmanuel patted his bleeding cheek and straightened. “Sleep soundly while I, too, become whole.”

He went to the bowls and loaded them onto trays, which he carried down into the kitchen. The peace and quiet filled his body as he cooked the meat with various spices and ate it for himself. He continued until there was no more, each container empty, still bloody. He loaded it all in the dishwasher and turned it on, cleaning the kitchen to the last spot, even cleaner than it had been when he had arrived. Finally he went upstairs and to Annie’s bedside table where he opened a drawer and found her jewels. He took them all out and carried them to Leonard who was struggling now visibly with lack of air, although the plastic tube did keep him from being choked right away.

“A funeral for a prince awaits you,” Emmanuel said quietly, and one by one he slid thin chain necklaces and bracelets as well as smaller rings into the plastic tube, slowly blocking the airways completely. He kept his eyes on Leonard’s face, never blinking, observing each change in colour as he was slowly bereft of life. Muscles began cramping, his fingers twitched and spasms made his legs thrash against the mattress. Emmanuel rose and waited. It took five minutes for the last muscles to relax and a kind smile lingered on his lips before he cleaned the room of the plastic wrap and everything that could be traced back to him.

With the bag packed and slumped over his shoulder, he went back down into the kitchen. Upon the counter lay a list with twelve difference numbers, each with eight digits. He picked it up along with a ball-point pen, striking out the first sequence of digits, and smiling to himself, he left the house to set out to his car, disappearing into the night.