Sometimes he speaks softly
his forked tongue caressing
my being
the inside of my soul
sometimes his lies offer comfort
encouragement and passion
when reality beckons
but not for the merciless truth

Sometimes I invite him
I let his presence linger
in a corner of my soul
Sometimes I let him enter
take residence in my dream
And sometimes I pray
that I won't wake up

He takes it all in
He inhales
The poison
The misery,  the despair
All in one breath
And without a filter
Then resigns
He lets it all float
Because he cannot
Change
Anything
It seems

like a room without
colour or
perspective
no corners
no shades
no beginning
and no end
just random pegs
and light
onto which our threads
can be attached
for a moment
resembling something
contours
of a set
creation

I noticed him
as I entered the room
I noticed how his eyes
like those of a botanist
investigated my flower
how the purple and black had spread
and raised the skin
as if my blood were tactonic plates
threatening with eruption
I noticed his smile
and I knew
how this man truly knew
these flowers
where they grew
how to obtain them
and make them bloom
I wanted my flower to bloom

Experienced bakers bake bread.

It has been rising
In the cold
For days
Leavened
By an ancient sour dough
Now it has come out
They have formed it
A tough process
Tedious work and foul smells
But they know
That the outcome will be
Worth it.

Would the poet in his elevated state
of illuminated enhancement of
conscience,
would he picture the beauty in this
figure
this face
not to act upon it
but to ponder and capture
in its truest essence of being
this figure
and this face
their transcience of colour
for eternity to marvel at?

Would he,
the poet, perceive
and capture this?

I see them coming
I see their ignorance
I watch them
Until they notice me

I let them scream
I let them run
I let them hope
Until they disappear

I never liked silence
In my family we talk
A lot
About nothing
We talk non stop
Unless
Something serious
Comes up
Then
There's silence
Like a useless spell
Against truth

seven years ago
seven o seven a.m.
my life turned around

Is there poetry
In repetition
Life as a prediction
In the safety of precision
Indecision?

Is there poetry
In every fight
As long as we write
Let our words take flight?

Is there poetry
In all
Every word
Misspelled and all
Is there beauty to enthrall
In every poem we put
On this wall?

Is there poetry in this
Or will it need something
Maybe a kiss
Will it have to promote bliss
Or happiness, love
For you to think
That there is poetry
In this?

we ate strange meat
from the ashes
when no green was left

starved and exhausted
we scoured the city
for weapons and meat

we fought wars
over canned fruit and water
and we left the dead to rot

but then the food ran out
and not even acid rain would fall
on the layers of nightmarish dust

when we found him
he was already gone
not dead but out of his mind

so we tied him
and we let him bleed
like a lamb at easter

and we feasted
first on his heart
and then on his meager flesh

In our cups was suddenly wine
and we drank at this
at our last supper as men

I discovered it
On a Sunday morning
During my normal morning routines.
It was still small and insignificant then. Dark like a small cave,
an entrance into my skin
But too small
For anything to enter.

A week passed
In quiet oblivion
There didn't seem to be
Anything to talk about,
And I almost forgot it was there.

Then on Sunday,
The mirror caught it
Again
I had not tried to look
But the mirror made me,
And there it was

It had grown.
Still looked like a cave
Now fit for a snake
Or a small rodent
But it was not hollow
There was no cavity.

I felt like
I had to tell someone
Only
I didn't know how
So
I covered the hole
And tried to forget it.

Forgetting proved hard.
Every time I passed the mirror
It reminded me of
Our secret
And one night
My husband surprised us.
He suddenly stood there
In the doorway
Watching me
Explore the darkness
Which had spread
And now resembled
A dark country on my back.

We didn't talk about it,
But my husband made an appointment
For me to see a specialist
In dark patches.
He knew
I would just go and hide
Inside it
If he told me
To do it myself.

So I went
To see the specialist.
Feeling rather nervous,
I let her inspect
My dark side.
The dark patch
Was now so big
I was half black
Half white
And I would flip
Like a coin
Showing either side
At random.

She wanted to operate.
I should be split in halves
And the dark half
Should be put away
Somewhere safe.

I left the room
Feeling liberated
And inspired.
A thousand words suddenly swarmed
My unrestrained mind
And demanded venting.
So I bought a notebook
On my way home
And I started writing
As soon as I got a moment
To spare.

During my Sunday routine
I suddenly looked in the mirror
And it occurred to me
That on my right shoulder
There was a patch
Of white
The size of a small
Rodent's nesting hole.

If I look closely
at our electric lights
they, too, flicker
I sense the changing current
tonight

in her tower
Rapunzel is waiting
for a ******
revolution

For months she had fertilised
watered, toiled for and nurtured
a seed meant for greatness

In a matter of minutes it would show
the fruit, the final test
a display of their labour's worth

Empty,
forgotten
and totally overgrown
as if nature
is taking it back
from the town
it used to belong to

Broken
eyes stare
through glass tears
scouting for strangers
and lost children
looking for a place
to hide

Secret
hollow
beneath floors
someone once
left behind  
to be found
maybe

Flowers painted
Underneath fragile layers
Of skin

Colourful reminders
Behind glasses
On a cloudy day
Swollen memories
Enveloping happy days
Of compromise

Do you mean to **** me
with your beauty
and your velvet tongue?

Do you mean to **** me
with your letters
and your sentence ropes?

Do you mean to **** me
with your sudden silence
after all your constant talk
of death?

Slip and swim
into
spiked super sleep  
slippery stereo
sound
Senses seduced by silence
stolen solitude
And shuffled sedation
Suburbian escape

There's a backdoor
Always a backdoor
A trapdoor
To let me out
Or let you in
Let me in
Or trap me
In your trap
Of doors
Revolving doors
Revolving
And mirrors
Mirroring
Trapdoors
And me
Trapped
In endless
Mirrors
And doors
To traps set
By you
To entrap
Me

On a late night walk
just to get some air
I picked it up
outside one of the hotels
and walked around with it
sometimes in my arms
sometimes hanging on my shoulder
later dragging after me
leaving traces of red
on the pavement
but I kept it
for comfort
in crowded places
It allowed me to sit anywhere
until I remembered
that it was supposed to be a short walk
and I returned it
the red chair
at the hotel
where I found it
before I returned
to my dream

I saw a flower
Burned by the summer sun
Withered by winter's cold
It had not felt spring
For years

Then it happened
A lightning cracked
And fire swept through
The garden
Rain followed
But the fire consumed
Everything
Left a pile of ashes
On the ground

But now it rises again
From ancient seeds
Which the fire didn't ruin
To greet the spring
In bloom

The word lover

Is all

Is beautiful

Emerges on soft sheets

Gentle to touch

Soars

Takes refuge

Among plain words

Caresses

Persuades

Seduces

Haunts

Words

Dream

Activa­tes vibrant

Lucid

Imagination

Gains access to

The essence of

[   ]

covering the world
that I see
covering you
is a layer of personal
poetry
a language illegible
if not invisible
to all
but I see it
and sometimes I write it
in a different language
to make the world see
just how beautiful
you are

I hate you!
because I hate the state that I'm in
because of you
and your tendencies to be late
letting me rely on fate
to bring you back
from hell's gate
or your latest date.
**** that! I shouldn't sit here and wait
for you to communicate
enunciate
that you're back and alive and safe

I hate you
because I care for you
more than I'm supposed to
I'm just a member of the state crew
trying to teach you
raise you
keep you out of trouble, too
make a proper man out of you
all of that you *****
with your trips towards that inner you
Boo! *******!
those trips are ships for fools
they'll sail you right outta your cools

and I hate you
because there's nothing I can do

Blue Water, White men
Waves rising then licking sand
The Danish West Coast

In my language
The word for time is old
And slow
It refers to tides
Rolling back and forth
Eternally
Shaping our shores
Moving our minds.

In my language
The word for an hour
Is time itself
Thus holding captive
A fragment of eternity
Within a mere fracture
Of a life
Of a day

A minute in my language
Is a letter shorter than yours
But sometimes
They feel longer
Stretched
In boredom
Or anticipation

Sometimes
They disappear
The minutes
Taking with them
The moment
Like seconds

Ours seconds
With a slightly harsher spelling
Are still fragile
Fickle,  evasive
They make everything
Relative
Change fates
Inspire artists
Win wars
But the tides are eternal

Time, in my language,
Is bound
To the Earth
To forces
Greater than us.

For her
he had spent all his time
building that perfect house
his brothers had all chipped in

We had children helped pick wallpaper
tiles, curtains, floors
it was all perfect
even the street name denoted idyl

It was summer when we moved in
we loved that house immensely
but she, my mother
did not move in
we would visit her over the weekend
at his best friend's house
our house was sold
with loss
to everyone

A shadow writes
Explorations of lust
And danger
Passionate endeavours
Into forbidden territory
And thus
Its civilised host
Is never compromised

I used to dream of sirens
not of getting lost at sea
but being one of them
leading you astray

Misinterpreted
Man's aspiring arrogance
A crumbling Tower

I wanted to
Reset
beauty
And surface
For once
Start over
Not minding public
opinion
Cut it down
to its roots
To allow life
To grow
Anew
In its place

The sounds
In the public library
With the bass
In her pulse
Made a discreet
Soundtrack
To her first reading
Of O

On a day like this
so beautiful
happiness is
a fluffy pillow
into which I sink
and suffocate
unless
I **** something
or watch someone
inflict pain
in theory
to balance
my perfect
reality

Immortal
In a shiny new car
Speeding through life
In the endless night
Of newfound freedom

Blinded by crystalline stars
And spellbound by the rhythm
Of a well oiled engine
He did not see the lights
Nor hear the hearts around him

Feeling only euphoria
Eventually
He crashed into them
Ego first
Smashing their civilised dreams

...and what if I took it
just once
took the ticket
and let go of a day
let it pass
with my conscience flowing
my whole being dissolved
with the substance in my saliva
and the fires in my brain

And what if...
I let existence be an eruption
of emotion
and sensory floods
of fluid, fluorescent light
If I took it
would I be able to let go
and be me
again...

I always feared
that someday
you would somehow
self destruct

They were celebrating
in lofty halls
and carpeted offices
with wine flowing
thick and red
when the bombs fell
to finally **** him
rid the world of his tyranny
of ideas
of meaning

they were celebrating
and toasting
to freedom
and democracy
with structures disintegrating
in every corner
when it finally hit them
that he wasn't coming back
to save them
this time

imperfect
is home
deliberately cluttered
and comfortable
so unlike mother's

Red are the violent floods of passion and rage
sometimes love
sometimes national pride
and ancestry
in my blood
in our flag
and my dreams at night.

Red is fire
and ***
Red is anger and lust
desire

Red is me
I am
The Red Dragon

I need to ground myself
touch and feel the grass
smell the roses
for they are there

I need to ground myself
stop chasing that high, that rush
and let go
for it is time

I need to ground myself
start breathing the analogous real
and **** my avatar
before she kills me

I cannot write
My increasing vocabulary despite
I cannot capture what’s real
What I actually feel
I cannot capture
You

I can write about pain
I can write out my fears
Make you worry about me – again
I can write about strange addictions
And constructed fictions
But they cannot encompass
You

When you smile
You open my heart
And out pours my words like the Nile
It’s a strange contradiction
That from you streams my fiction
But my fictions are rarely about
you

When I write
I build castles of words
I let my demons fight
But those demons are safe on my page
They are locked in a virtual cage
This is keeping me sane for
You

When I dream
When I conjure up magical worlds
Things are not what they may seem
For they may be about finding vents
Using words as escape, making dents
But the rock upon which my castles are built
Is you
Always you

sometimes words
leave the world
breathless
uncertain
until their return

Carassius auratius auratius
exhibited
live
in live blenders
for our sake

Would you
out of curiosity
or simply
if you had the chance
push the button
and destroy
lesser life?

I
I stopped writing
because of the sun
I could not see the dark
and my letters
became invisible
so I stopped
and waited for clouds

II
And darkness crept in
through the cracks
of a fake smile hiding
the real
painful enlightenment
that truly blocked
the sun

III
But in the dark there were letters
like keys
to boxes of treasured light
that did not sting
or burn out
like the sun

Behind me in line
this morning
at the local store
was a man
with a flower

I only noticed him
as I packed my groceries
but he was standing
right behind me
with his flower

He looked 60-something
and happy
maybe recently retired
and he was buying a flower
a beautiful potted lily

Just that
wrapped in sensible plastic
and he was smiling
made me smile, too

Safeguarded by shadows
I saw
Servants performing
Sedated but live
Sacrifice
On a stone altar
I saw them sever spines
And several limbs
I heard snaps
Saw skinning
Stabbings  
Some wrists getting slit
And I slipped
Suddenly
The stairs were slippery
And I stumbled
Among skeletons
Skulls, skins
And serpents
Stupefied and scared
I stood
In the sanctuary
Surrounded by soulless shells
Swarming me
Seeking to sink  
Their shredding teeth
Into my shivering skin
And stick their sullied spears
Through the sockets
Of my eyes
To stab at
my sanity