a Norwegian
fjord did
cut their
axel's hairpin
in the
row of
tundra that
Lapland was
their arcane
balloon on
Aegean shore
if Barents
Sea burgeoned
dialect herd
yelp in
Mike Pence
with accord.

Ingen ****** med mig, en københavner
For jeg er immun over røgen fra de
Gule og blå kameler - selv når
Du presser dem ned med din tunge,
Og du fortæller mig hvor skøn du
Synes min kolde krop er.
Du euforiserer dig selv
med Hash fra Christiania.
Og lidt *** fra Vesterbro

Ingen ****** med mig, en københavner
Imens jeg dækker øjnene til, og
Svinger ud foran en bil på Blegdamsvej
Når jeg bander og svovler, over idioterne i
Deres benzinslugende miljøforurenende biler
Jeg cykler, hvor jeg vil - for cykelister
Har da førsteret, selv på Lyngbyvejen
En fredag aften.

Ingen ****** med mig, en københavner
Når jeg tager et sip af min lunkne Latte
Og læser min egen halvkvalmende poesi
Om mit efterårskolde kærlighedsliv
På en lille kaffebar uden WIFI på Nørrebro
For jeg er langt foran, på farten og lidt sejere end
De andre poetiske narcisister
Fra Nordjylland

Ingen ****** med mig, en københavner
For jeg har skandinavisk gennemsigtig hud
Sjasket lyst hår, og fregner så mange at du
Bliver grøn af misundelse
For jeg er storbyens dronning
Så kan du bare fucke hjem til
Dit provinshul.

STRONG rocks hold up the riksdag bridge ... always strong river waters shoving their shoulders against them ...
In the riksdag to-night three hundred men are talking to each other about more potatoes and bread for the Swedish people to eat this winter.
In a boat among calm waters next to the running waters a fisherman sits in the dark and I, leaning at a parapet, see him lift a net and let it down ... he waits ... the waters run ... the riksdag talks ... he lifts the net and lets it down ...
Stars lost in the sky ten days of drizzle spread over the sky saying yes-yes.
  
Every afternoon at four o'clock fifteen apple women who have sold their apples in Christiania meet at a coffee house and gab.
Every morning at nine o'clock a girl wipes the windows of a hotel across the street from the post-office in Stockholm.
I have pledged them when I go to California next summer and see the orange groves splattered with yellow *****
I shall remember other people half way round the world.

Maybe if you leave, we can work it out.

I need a permanent blanket of nimbus clouds more oppressive than a Roman Catholic Court.

But, moving to London might convict me back to the cityscape of wasted Fridays and Saturdays.

Because without it, the Betrand Russell in me might just start to wake up. And then I’d remember - there has to be more to life than the 9 to 5 daze.

Washington DC stopped being fun after week two, and now I see it for what it is — a crush of desperate tourists blowing cigarette smoke in your face while you sweat last night’s drinks and Jumbo slice crash.

Anywhere that sells Nutella crepes is pretty sweet, and I love all the kite flyers and buskers festivals. I long ago realized that while Christiania has hundreds of market stalls, they’re all selling the same material things on a Groundhog Day loop: baked goods, stolen bikes, old furniture, cheap phones, and bags of open air hash.

Climbing up Carcassonne, a fortified medieval French town, probably is the best thing ever, but somehow, the two-hour lines to get into Berghain seem more worth it — all that dirt, grunge, and spinning feels as close to Dante’s Inferno; as close to feeling alive as it gets.

But now my Sunday afternoons are spent curled on top of my clean bedsheets, twitching about like a decapitated blue whale - batshit exhausted and depressed but somehow grinning like The Joker, wondering if sleep ever sets.