Jeg tror mennesket stræber efter ansvarsløshed. Vi bliver født uden ansvar; i den totale afmagt. Til sidst er vi ligeså skrøbelige og uselvstændige som i begyndelsen, og ind i mellem det og den, så prøver folk at påtage sig opgaver og roller for at tildele årene og dagene noget værdi. Hertil følger ansvar. Men frihed under ansvar er ikke frihed. Når man erkender, at man forsøgte at tillægge noget nogen værdi, så er man bundet af frigørelsen. Så ser man at uanset hvilken værdi, man har lyst til at give, kan man give, så værdien pludselig får værdi, og man frigøres fra frigørelsen. Det er frihed uden ansvar og selvstændighed og årets frugt.

The truth was ripe
The taste was sour
A rotten sting of my golden hour

Spawn your dust, scarce without stint
A silver tongue to sprawl resent
Yet, blends of clarity and savagery - aligned to devour

your fragile phantom fathoming
that HONESTY isn't POWER

Bare det at én holder af mig
er nok til at jeg smilte til stjernerne i aften

Nogle har brug for at brække sig for at vide de er fulde
*** ser på mine øjne ikke i dem.                  Jeg vil gerne sige dig noget, der ikke siger dig noget, for at se, hvor du kigger hen.
                 For træt til at forstå, så jeg dividerer min søvn med nul.
Vinterlyset er væk.

My sexlife is only existing by the thought thereof; it is a film cancelled in pre-production. It is an abandoned studio wherein the lone director stands centrally - scoping the remains of an epic never made, eavesdropping the voices of people that could have been involved and the props and the grandiose sets left in shielding shades.

Maybe someday the script can be rewritten, the thirteen hundred volt lamps will light up the stage where an actress vents her soul and it burns onto celluloid solely destructible by time. The company has decided to let the studio be, maintain it, so that the film can be revived and the passion rekindled, yet for now the studio will be left unattended.
I guess I will visit occasionally.

That night he died again. Oh, he could rest assure that the morning would resuscitate him, but the pages on his desk were empty still and the fingers proclaimed to writing were occupied fiddling with a broken guitar string. His feet walking the neighbourhood neither produced many words nor did calculating the time ought to be spent effectively. He punched a class picture. In the last few days it had gotten easier to ignore the empty pages. The task was overdue, he was done discussing discipline, order of priority and so forth. Pajamas on, lying - waiting - for a morning that, in a few days, will come

Ten minutes after I had barfed nine nuances of green
and eight hues of pathetic in a pretty steady stream
I found a girl whimpering in the shades of a column
My drunken self coughed and adjusted to being solemn
'cause I knew her long ago and offered her comfort
and perceived it went well but what did it not distort?

dry cheeks and thank you's
I continued whatever
and she played her game

for a boy who gave her the blues
should be the victim of her clever
bedside revenge in vain

he cared two shitbricks 'bout her roundabout
her self-inflicted humiliation was complete
he hunts the insecure to hear his boyz applaud
now she had vengefully given herself to Pete

I realized her dignity was a blood stain on a sheet
and all that was just a laughing matter to Pete
it disappeared with the rumbling of his washing machine
but to my eyes; that spot will never appear clean

I did not have the authority to put that ******-casanova behind bars
but Ink-Eye gave him the prison treatment, in an alley, under the stars
.....
pause. (WHO'S INK-EYE?)
Before I morphed into the niagara falls of puke, this man with a tattooed teardrop was handed my money by my intoxicated hands in order to set things straight the old way. All I dug up from my wallet was three dimes and some pastilles. Minty.
"It'll do".


Last night I sat at the highway diner. All chairs were stacked but mine. On my plate lied a charlatan's tooth wrapped in white tissue paper, as if I had pickpocketted it from his gums. The lousy transistor radio scrambled Tom Waits' "Midnight Lullaby" as the waitress did dishes in the ***** kitchen, and I saw my lone silhouette in the panorama 'show' window illuminated by the worn out neon signs on the diner's facade. I needed to go home.

She did not love me before wine convinced her otherwise. She embraced me from behind. She quivered. I turned and yearned. I trembled. Her lascivious blue iris recognized my sobriety. She fluttered by.
After the lights had been shut off, and the sounds were laid to rest, I inhaled the chronic and drifted off to a chilling dive in the sky's baby blue reflection. Asleep I agreed that I would have struck her hair behind her ears if I had been drunk.