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.

The Glitch

With the emergence of social media and the vast web of invisibly connected lines, torrents of information blasting across the night-time sky, the civilised world has become what it feared the most: a hive-mind, a particular constellation of integrated skills, some prone to self-distribution and displaying exactly the portion of human narcissism which one could have expected to surface at the introduction of a medium such as the computer; others shuffle their deck of cards and play a game of mind and heart, utilising the spider-web for what it is potentially worth: justification and sublime distribution of knowledge, expanding their intelligence and wisdom, learning and at the same time teaching, while every act they complete is a new lesson to the less skilled follower; some lurk in the dark, and hide, and let those easily awed articulate their astonishment – or dislike – towards the intelligent spiders who work tirelessly. The last category I find just as justifiable as the two others, whether you chose to stand by and watch knowing that you have skills to match the intelligent and that your ego would thrive in the celebratory reverberations following your successful conquest of the web, or whether you acknowledge that you are no match for such mastodons and that you are better left alone, introvert and incapable, in cyberspace as well as in life.
Because cyberspace is manifest. It is ethereal, a real illusion. It is its own contradiction in the very essence of the word. The real world is dimmed by the immenseness of this structure, this construction of diffuse niches and rooms, with a surface net and a darknet, both consisting of user-generated content, whether decipherable easily or not. We receive the key by connecting, we unlock and open the door by staring up a browser, and we enter the different rooms of the cyber-house via the addresses we gain access to. Search engines are our maps, forums and message boards our dinner tables or book clubs. What we acquire through the internet to fill into our material homes soon become less valuable as we plunge into the depths of the web, some closer to the middle than others.
And all the while, the world keeps spinning, the sun is ablaze and the grass is green beneath the snow.
Humanity has become a hive-mind, sharing, liking and reflecting upon itself; a vanity mirror of actions, reactions and knowledge-enhancement. Self-realization becomes modest, at best, while our minds go blank with the steady, endless stream of connectivity. We disembody ourselves from ourselves and into a greater constellation of minds, forgetting our physical self and everything we used to strive towards in the past. For the past is what makes us; our history makes us.
For what is our present history? Wars are no longer fought by men but machines, human interaction has stalled and become virtual reality with avatars representing our ‘selves’, faces made up, drawn or even animals, flowers or imaginary beasts. Our browser history is what concerns us, our cyber-trail of steps across the spider-web. We interpret into that our own interests and either hide or display who we are through communicating our thoughts, black fonts of white, blank slates of web-pages, editable and customisable to portray our ‘selves’. We live in a virtual collective, socialising and connecting on a daily basis, so much that it can engulf us entirely.
And all the while, the world comes to a halt, the sun is gone, and the grass has withered beneath the ashen snow.

A note on illusions

This is how I want it to end, a spectacular showdown, magnificent as only Louis XIV could dream of in his vaguest moments of vanity. This is how it will end and I am glad; I will drown and swell as I marvel at the apocalypse of humankind. For there is no such thing as a deroute of decadence, and I, like the phoenix, will rise and be born again, when it comes to mind that I am innocent. That is the sole key to the illusion. Or rather the irony. The irony of illusion. For can an illusion really be an illusion? Is it not also a representation of our reality? It carries traits, although flawed, but some inch of reality is established in the expectation of illusion, a guidance to better days, a promise, a hope, which is vague in its consistence because it is not real.

Also the illusion, an illusion, any illusion, is made like a lie. Seeing through the looking glass, a frame, a window, a mirror reflecting yourself, but you are not yourself. You are in the world of illusions. An illusion cannot be flawed in itself. It is perfectly designed, an ever-evolving, immersive and from-reality-completely-derived construction bearing fiction in its wake, for all the world to see, depicting that which we most want to see. Or hear. An illusion is a metaphor for our ego. Our arrogance, that we will be able to look upon a self-made reality. Such as the case is with the new perception of the world, through the goggles of the digitalized world. So uncivilized, so unfocused. To believe that you can claim anything through a medium such as cyberspace, a virtually non-existent space filling the gap of useless time. A horn of thunder and fire, a place to throw away your soul to the dogs, the pack of which you are a part.

To all of you, is this really what you want? When you make facebook-profiles for your unborn baby, when you spend hour upon hour in a chat-room or on a forum, immersing into this state of hibernation as you become one with the hive-mind, created by your partners in crime; is this the future you want for your children, to exist in a non-existent cyberspace, mediated only through the recognizable graphical user interface?

Arrogant. To look away from the medium of your product is to look away or completely ignore the functionality of your achievement, and your life. You do not pass from existence to non-existence. Your life may be defined by your documents on a server, your blogs, your video-streams or the like, but to immerse, to become the medium, a non-material medium, this itself is betrayal to the life you were given. You are neither alive nor dead. You simply are not. You become that which is the perfect construction of reality, the mirror, your own reflection. You are not gone but neither are you there. You have ceased to exist and become something else. You are no longer real. You are living the illusion; you have become the illusion.

Stuff to think about

In the midst of the night, it all passed like a dark silhouette of a cloud against the moon. For it was nothing else. A fleeting thing, a grasp-less thing; a veil concealed within a veil. The night itself presented to me the most dignifying of promises: a new, splendid morning.

I’ve always accounted the night for being my day and opposite. Deconstruction by light and multi-plication by midnight. It all made sense in my small, fantasy-enhanced world of pre-requisites for a perfect night. Mornings were nothing to me. I got around the clock and woke up when called upon by the wings of darkness soaring across this small globe, a globe smaller than life itself. Because to me, we were life. There was no other definition of it, seeing that in the universe we were, so far, the only ones capable of self-reflection.

We, the living, were alive. And all the things we chose to put into our lives, alcohol, drugs, violence, decadence beyond measuring, were the elements of destruction. And these things were associated with destruction. So are we not all deconstructionists?

We deconstruct ourselves to put ourselves together into some kind of redeeming fashion, a porcelain doll, whose face oozes of beauty, but within is rotting like the molten garden of Eden in God’s backyard. And we pray and we wish and we seek help to get out of it, out of the rotting garden where maggots of greed and poisonous fumes and waters are consuming our souls.

But the trouble is that we chose a life like this. Our ancestors chose it for us, they dictated the customs that we should seek to follow by the Book, instead of choosing ourselves, what to do with our lives and what perspectives to have. In the end, we, ourselves, are the only ones to help us out of the rotting garden, and we, ourselves, are the only ones trying to remove the rotten fruit and establish filters to cleanse the water from its self-loathing pollution and integrity-absorbing poison.

Become one. Become the one. History has played its part, and in no other time than this has this many people been able to influence it, thanks to the scientific revolution.