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I swear I had snus
Sorely missin my chew
Well ding dang
I got myself the Copenhagen blues

Guess I'll run to the store
Cuz I just ain't sane
Without a little Copenhagen
I might forget my name

Looks like I'm makin a ***** run
I love Cope so much so
I gotta go get some

But when I ask for a can
The clerk says sorry sweetie
Just sold my last to that man
Kirsty Feb 2015
youcouldhearourflesh                                 rip
                                                                ­                apart.

(as though it had ever beentogether
as though we were ever
                                                            ­             more
than car crashes
than house fires.

I held onto your address, you know
when you held on to my hand;
when you held up the traffic;
when you                                                        left
 ­                                                                 ­                  me
and drank
                                                           ­     
                                                           ­               Copenhagen
through a paper straw.


The whetted splendour of it all:
I wonder if the drowned ever
noticed
how the sun kisses                                     The Sea?
                                                            ­                                
down
                           ­                                  
                              ­                      we
                                        ­                                                  
sank.

Did your feet touch the bottom or
did you                                                              ­ swim
to the sound of -

to the sound of br ea k ing vi oli  n s ?
I snapped each string
like I was                                         pulling teeth.


Your address  folded into
                                                         wav­es,
your house burned to
                                                         dust,


the kind god                     keepssafe -
“one last
                                                        keep sake”
in his pockets.



If I tightened my hands,
doyouthinkicouldchokeonthis
                              ­                                      cable?
Wouldthatstop                              time or
your voice or
my voice;                                       the voicemails;
the answer machine that
no one                                            ever
                                                                ­  answered?


My blueeyed boy was born in              goodbyes
he sleeps in seas                        
                                    ­                            irrevocable:
and The Tide washes him home to me
                                                              ­  every day.)

it sounded like                             fingers
tangled in                                             phone wire
and br ok e nv io l in  s.
Copenhagen is a movie that greatly parallels my relationship
Yet the more I saw them thrive the lonelier I felt
The lonelier I felt the more space I seemed to occupy in my bed

Near the last quarter of the movie there was a scene
That made me think to myself
"Effy is the only woman that can slap a man then make him dance"
And I took up more of my bed
r Feb 2015
everyone's talking
about freedom of speech

as if it should come at no cost
like something you teach

it's never been that way
and it never will be

we need to be reminded
of what it means to be free.
r ~ 2/15/15
Terry Collett Dec 2015
She's back,
said Dalya,
the skinny Yank dame
is back, and shares my tent
with her perfume and talk;
her tales of whom she's had
and whom she's slept with
and how much they spent
on her and why and where.

Benny met me by the bar
in the Copenhagen base camp,
beers and smokes
and burgers and fries,
and me telling him
about the dame
and what she says
and does, and o that perfume
enough to drown in,
and he laughed
and said he heard
the Yank dame was after
the Aussie guy who
he shared a tent with
and the Aussie guy
was hot for her.

The base camp speakers
were pumping out Deep Purple,
high guitars
and bellowing vocals,
and Benny said when will
you and I get together again?
and I said
as soon as the dame goes
or leaves or shacks up
with another.  

We went into the City
and saw some sights,
the Tivoli Gardens,
the Little Mermaid statue,
and had a few more beers
and smokes
and he kissed me
and it was a hot kiss,
and I wanted him,
but there was no where to go,
so I just carried
the image of him
back to my tent
and where I,
well you know.
A WOMAN AND MAN IN COPENHAGEN IN 1974 AND AN IMAGE.
Lendon Partain Apr 2013
I.
AM.
A.
*******.

Here's how i roll.
I plop the excrement, directly in the pool.
I **** on chairs,
This is where i place stool.

Plip plob drop loads,
Crenated blood cells and lymphatic drool.
Hurt my kidneys in a fight with truth the other night.
7 brutal, flooring uppercuts to the Latisimus dorsi....

I am > "this girl"
That one that's taken more hits in the face than Tyson.
The one that makes Jenna and Sunni Leone look like pre-school dropouts of ****.

Guys say.
"She"
"got the,"
"best head."

She has nothing in it though.
Her brain's finished by the time words leave her lips whole.
thats as far as it gets
the words pass her **** then she falls, grab her hips.

Prepare the sword for the stone.
The one with the baby whole in her dome.

She's not good, much else.
Her black hair and wisdom lines go bout as deep as her shirt.
Depending on the day.
Pervert.

Lets do ANOTHER line.
"Oh My GOD!" "We did so much *******...."
Coke in cans.
Filled with whiskey flask-hand.

"This night's gunna be one to remember",
if his member is inside, that's my gender,
Blend it with all the worst intentions,
Use the worst intentions.
Stab the heart of conviction.
Tear it to tethers with tension.
Rip the strings of friendship.
Tease the knots of frayed linen,
Like its the only thing ya got.

"I am so high right now."
I forgot what earth looks like.
Probably like my town.

Only place I've been.
I'm 17 ya see.

Its the only thing you got.
You don't deserve roses, flowers, Laurels.
No trees.
No dime bags, no speed, no crying hag.

I can sure **** 25 yearolds.

Saying your better never sounded more like a lie.
Worst thing is you have that prevarication internalized.

I have a god complex...
Wanna save em all...
Can't save a ******* one...

I did lie once...
It was...
When I told you that you weren't...
A *******...
Nigel Morgan Oct 2012
I can imagine her in Aarhus Kunstmuseum coming across this painting, adjusting her glasses, pursing her lips then breaking out into a big smile. The gallery is almost empty. It is early in the day for visitors, but she is a tourist so allowances are made. Her partner meanwhile is in the Sankt Markus Kirke playing the *****, a 3 manual tracker-action gem built in 1967 by Poul Gerhard Anderson. Sweelink then Bach (the trio sonatas written for his son Johann Christian) are on the menu this morning. In the afternoon she will take herself off to one of the sandy beaches a bus ride away and work on a poem or two. He has arranged to play the grand 83-voice Frobinus ***** in the Cathedral. And so, with a few variations, some illustrious fugues and medley of fine meals in interesting restaurants, their stay in Denmark’s second city will be predictably delightful.
       She is a poet ‘(and a philosopher’, she would say with a grin), a gardener, (old roses and a Jarman-blue shed), a musician, (a recorder player and singer), a mother (four girls and a holy example), but her forte is research. A topic will appear and relentlessly she’d pursue it through visits to favourite libraries in Cambridge and London. In this relentless pursuit she would invariably uncover a web of other topics. These would fill her ‘temporary’ bookcase, her notebooks and her conversation. Then, sometimes, a poem would appear, or not.
          The postcard from Aarhus Kunstmuseum had sat on her table for some weeks until one quiet morning she decided she must ‘research’ this Sosphus Claussen and his colleagues. The poem ‘Imperia’ intrigued her. She knew very little Danish literature. Who did for goodness sake! Hans Christian Anderson she dismissed, but Søren Kierkegaard she had read a little. When a student, her tutor had talked about this author’s use of the pseudonym, a very Socratic device, and one she too had played with as a poet. Claussen’s name was absent from any online lists (Were there really on 60 poets in Danish literature?). Roge appeared, and the painter Willumsen had a whole museum dedicated to his work; this went beyond his El Greco-like canvases into sculpture, graphics, architecture and photography. He looked an interesting character she thought as she browsed his archive. The one thing these three gentlemen held in common was an adherence to the symbolist aesthetic. They were symbolists.
         For her the symbolists were writers, playwrights, artists and composers who in the later years of the 19C wanted to capture absolute truth through indirect methods. They created work in a highly metaphorical and suggestive manner, endowing particular images or objects with symbolic meaning. Her studies in philosophy had brought her to Schopenhauer who considered Art to be ‘a contemplative refuge from the world of strife’. Wasn’t this what the symbolists were all about?
         Her former husband had introduced her to the world of Maurice Maeterlinck through Debussy’s Pelleas and those spare, intense, claustrophobic dramas like Le Malheure Passe. It was interesting how the discovery of the verse of the ancient Chinese had appeared at the time of the symbolist project, and so influenced it. Collections like The Jade Flute that, in speaking of the everyday and the natural world, held with such simplicity rich symbolic messages. Anyway, she didn’t do feelings in her poetry.
           When she phoned the composer who had fathered three of her children he said to her surprise ‘Delius’. He explained: C.F. Keary was the librettist for the two operas Delius composed. Keary wrote a novel called The Journalist (1898) based on Sosphus, a writer who wrote plays ‘heavily laced with symbolism’ and who had also studied art and painted in Paris. Keary knew Claussen, who he described as a poet, novelist, playwright, painter, journalist and eventually a newspaper owner. Claussen was a close friend of Verlaine and very much part of the Bohemian circle in Paris. Claussen and Delius’ circle intersected in the person of Herman Bang, a theatre director who produced Claussen’s Arbedjersken (The Factory Girl). Clauseen wrote an important poem on Bang’s demise, which Delius set to music.
          She was impressed. ‘How is it that you know so much about Delius?’, she asked. He was a modernist, on the experimental edge of contemporary music. ‘Ah’, he replied, ‘I once researched the background to Delius’ Requiem. I read the composer’s Collected Letters (he was a very serious letter writer – sometimes 10 a day), and got stuck into the letters of his Paris years when so many of his friends were Scandinavian émigrés. You once sent me a postcard of a painting by Wilhumsen. It was of Clauseen reading to two of his ‘symbolist’ colleagues. I think you’d picked it up in Denmark. You said, if I recall, that you’d found it ‘irresistible’’.
          And so it was, this painting. Irresistible. She decided that its irresistibility lay in the way the artist had caught the head and body positions of reader and listeners. The arrangement of legs, she thought, says so much about a man. Her husband had always sat with the care embedded in his training as a musician at an instrument. He could slouch like the rest of us, she thought, but when he sat properly, attentive to her words, or listening to their sweet children, he was beautiful. She still loved him, and remembered the many poems she had composed for him, poems he had never seen (she had instructed a daughter to ‘collect’ them for him on her passing). Now, it was he who wrote poetry, for another, for a significant other he had said was his Muse, his soul’s delight, his dearly beloved.
          The wicker chair Sophos Claussen is sitting in, she decided, she would like in her sitting room. It looked the perfect chair for giving a reading. She imagined reading one of her poems from such a chair . . .
 
If daydreams are wrecks of something divine
I’m amazed by the tediousness of mine.
I’m always the power behind throne.
I rescue princes to make my own.

 
‘And so it goes’, she thought, quoting that American author she could never remember. So it goes, this strange life, where it seems possible for the mind to enter an apartment in 19C København and call up the smell of brilliantined hair, cigar tobacco, and the samovar in the kitchen. This poem Imperia I shall probably never read, she thought, though there is some American poet on a Fulbright intent on translating Claussen’s work into English. In a flash of the mind’s miracle she travels to his tiny office in his Mid-West university, surrounded by the detritus of student tutorials. In blue jeans and cowboys boots Devon Whittall gazes out of his third storey window at the falling snow.
 
There is nothing in the world as quiet as snow,
when it gently descends through the air,
muffles your steps
hushes, gently hushes
the voices that speak too loud.
 
There is nothing in the world of a purity like snow's,
swan's down from the white wings of Heaven,
On your hand a flake
is like dew of tears,
White thoughts quietly tread in dance.
 
There is nothing in the world that can gentle like snow,
quietly you listen to the silent ringing.
Oh, so fine a sound,
peals of silver bells,
rings within your innermost heart.

 
And she imagines Helge Rode (his left arm still on his right shoulder) reading his poem Snow in the quiet of the winter afternoon at Ellehammersvej 20 Kastrup Copenhagen. ‘And so it goes,’ she thought, ‘this imagination, flowing on and on. When I am really old like my Grandmother (discharging herself from hospital at 103 because the food was so appalling) will my imagination continue to be as rich and capable as it is today?’
          Closing her notebook and shutting down her laptop, she removed her cat from its cushion on the table, and walked out into her garden, leaving three Danish Symbolists to their readings and deliberations.
LJ Jun 2016
Train spotted on ancient rail tracks
Mucks and grants on submerged pasts
Copper and ***** metal poles point
Upwards in heaven above the panelled tops
Price all  the intentional conditioning
A paradise of self sufficiency
A dew of ranting , the metal raiding
Price the substitutional compressions
A timber frame of tunnels
The heightened temperature
Price and tag her beautiful mind
An attachment of glorified plinth
The punch of the chaotic medals
Pride and rearrange her plentiful plight
Show all her cast frame in crimson and greys
Tawanda Mulalu Sep 2014
If things don't exist until we see them-
then everything must be poetry.
I know I'm totally effing with the Copenhagen Interpretation in Quantum Physics (yet another thing in the list of 'Stuff I don't understand')... but I thought this would be fun. It was.
Rachel Elizabeth Feb 2013
There is a can of cheap tobacco
Sitting patiently on your desk
Cracked open on occasion;
Ready to be chewed up
And spit back out.
I met a nice young man
Picking plastic
From a garbage can

He informed me thus:
"All American citizens are
Stupid
And degenerate"

I wished to respond in turn:
"All Americans are
Intelligent
And industrious"

But this would be equally false
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
i.

for the past few weeks i've been doing an experiment,
thankfully philosophy allows such things,
of course, they're deviations from what i'm used to
in chemistry, they're less, what's the word?
spectacular - but they are nonetheless experiments,
and that's the beauty of being grounded in some sort
of science (trinity of biology, chemistry and physics
and that's the limit, beyond this there are only
pseudo-sciences)... medicine? that's the tsarina of
learning: like any tsarina: gets down and *****,
and yes: mathematics is the genteel queen.
philosophy on the other hand seems like a vagabond
in learning, never really pieced together,
never really sentenced to a single direction:
and for that matter, thought can become less narration
that stretches into the sort of philosophy that Sartre
embodied with his novel, and more into thought becoming
experimental...
you might be wondering what the experiment consisted
of... well, over the weeks i've been sadistic unto myself,
it's to do with trying to figure out the modern curse
that's the 3D's: debt, depression, dementia.
                i can't fall asleep without a bottle of whiskey
cigarettes, sleeping pills and music playing in the background:
which would make me a terrible partner, anyway.
   beyond that though, for weeks i repeated a pattern,
i fell asleep to the *hellraiser ii: hellbound
soundtrack
by christopher young...
       day-in-day out: as if to pressurise the idea that
the faculty of dreaming could be censored in the same way
that thinking is censored in liberal speech
eroding people's vocabulary, **** included.
     what i mean by that: every day i woke up with 15 minutes
of despair, then the zenith came after i lay in bed
for 4 hours and felt too many leeches ******* at me...
   those 15 minutes of despair were always there,
but then i usually got up and went about my daily business...
i admit that whiskey could be to blame,
anyone could argue the alcohol-is-bad argument,
but arguing as R. D. Laing might have that it's
also a sedative if you don't include social adhesion to loosen
the tension of going out and dancing:
then i don't see the point of saying it's all bad.
         sleeping pills (i found) are not 100% active without
what the prescription states that you should do:
i exceed limits, but then i write during the night -
            create a balance and i'm sure any insomnia
might be made minimal... anyway:
so i've been doing this roundabout experiment,
listening to the above album while falling asleep,
but then yesterday i decided to fall asleep listening to
godspeed you! black emperor's album F♯ A♯ ∞,
and guess what the experiment proved:
  i felt little or no anguish for 15 minutes,
obviously the usual groggy of a pseudo-hangover,
  but that doesn't mean staying in bed for 4 hours
because you feel **** about life 'n' all...
                   as already stated there's what we call
a cartesian dichotomy, that somehow altered mental
states cannot be translated into a physicality -
depression in this sort of language becomes lethargy -
people never seemed to connect the dots that
state the monism of everything having a pairing either
side of Humpty-Dumpty sitting on the ergo fence
asking about a flying omelette... ergo is a variation
of what precipitates... depression = lethargy...
the purest kind of what i know (i have enough psychiatric
literature to redeem myself from what would
be deemed quack-medicine with their quack doctors) -
some say that taking the vitamin B12 supplement
could help you: or that weak digestion is to blame, too.
i would be quack doctor if i was in a position of power,
and since i am not really earning anything from my
"poems", what sort of power can i abuse? trust -
but then again these are thought experiments,
           i first experiment on myself, then note down
the observations i have accounted for.
               so what will my unconscious eat today while
i switch off my consciousness? i was thinking of
the cure's disintegration album,
         perhaps that's why i did weeks of falling asleep
to a horror movie soundtrack, to later move into
neo-prog "rock" and then into 80s goth melancholia...
    i'd say that pop ****** melancholics off...
and such a nicer word for depression...
                   it's not even close to compression and has
nothing to do with aviation or the Netherlands...
     melan, melan: ah! melanism - a certain darkness,
    choly -         condition of darkness...
       and that star of Bethlehem appeared at night...
man of sorrows, well that's just blatant;
           but for all the romanticisation about darkness
and the mysterious moon and all the insomnia,
i still prefer the anti-cartesian explanation of actually
creating the proper answer to what has become
a dichotomy between the physical sciences and
the pseudo sciences, given that ergo is a precipitation
then for the two opposite to become inseparable
depression must be equal to lethargy: which is a variation
of the grander genus (family): metabolism.
               is this the point where i re-quote that famous:
doctor! heal yourself!
                                      well, if there's anything to go by
i have in my mind, given my life a prolonging in a way,
what was it... amitriptyline?
                                         the new ******* for
the respectably prone to citizenship's serenity of leaving
other people to their own demises -
  i mean, look at all the teetotalers: hyperactive bunnies
with too much energy that translated into things like
the infamous pyramids and the doubly infamous chimneys.

ii. the danish girl

i would have never thought that the transgender movement
had such a puritanism about it,
such platonism - nearing martyrdom;
who could have thought?! i only managed to see the film
today... i'm a sentimental ******* and i was choking
on not crying at the end of the film
here was a true representation of an artist,
         there's he (einar wegenar): a successful local
artist, within the confines of Copenhagen,
modestly famous: primarily because of having
perfected a technique and sourced it in a childhood
memory that keeps haunting him,
    thus he keeps repeating it, although with slight
alternation to refresh it, but no photograph to work
from, hence my previous statement:
  memory is the best cinema or arts' gallery (this
is not a universal statement, memory doesn't always
heal, or fascinate or have the ability to revitalises itself
or become the most potent "hallucinogenic" experience);
and then she's there (gerda wegener), also
painting, but more in line with paying the rent
rather than appeal, rich people needing portraits to
hang on the walls of the future of their lineage
        in years to come so someone might boast:
that was my ancestor, who founded the first bank
of Copenhagen sort of stories -
and all she wants to do is be an artist like Einar;
and she keeps coming back from galleries with her
works and they never give the critics any appeal
at being original - they have a suggestive generic
quality to them: precisely because they've been painted
for money. art is cruel in that way,
  when critics reduce producing art like they might reduce
being a cashier in a supermarket on the basis of:
job done... then comes the offense from the artist.
the beauty of this film is the platonism that soon explodes,
the near innocence... i really don't know how
the transgender movement borrowed from this:
all those Baphomet ******* with too many parts,
silicon chests and ***** and what not?
       this is one of the finest forms of defamation -
these days the transgender movement is so sexually
potent it doesn't really deserve what can only appear
as a self-imposed crucifixion...
              this story predates the unearthing of the nag
hammadi scripts, it's intuitively bound to what was
unearthed in 1945...
      einar sees the desperation of gerda, he knows
that he'll simply remain a local artist,
    bound to a square mile of earth, local, provincial
even... what he decides on is best expressed
by Marilyn Manson's lyrics: now i'm not an artist
i'm a ******* work of art
.
        how can not this resonate further into the film
if not by this motto:
it is a consecration of a memory, to invert it and
un-seize the moment long ago experienced and now
fuelling art, or the repetition of a safe technique established.
one man's frustration and a woman in a cage:
the potential seen - then a sudden bursting of madness,
the evident anti-cross -
                                  to say he had reached his limits
and she was kept frustrated and under-appreciated is
blatant enough, this self-sacrifice for a woman to
find her subject, was all too evident when she utters
the words that: the student overcomes the teacher,
and that's the whole story,
                       he has to walk into the canvas,
     in whatever way imaginable, and what a better way
than on a whim to escape the dreariness of parties
   by dressing up as a woman, after gerda's model
is late so she can continue a painting and einar
has to step in and wear a few female garments...
       to later realise the Dionysian consequence:
                                  only to the utmost excess, from here.
this could hardly be a propaganda movie for
the transgender movement... the "propaganda"
aspect ends when you hear children imitating this
artistic "prank" in today's society...
      it wasn't a prank in the slightest: but a profound
expression of love between two artists...
          outside of art the whole transgender movement
is still only ***** and silicon **** of Thailand's lady-boys:
that's not reality?        
although i actually did choke with nearing to cry
in the closing scene...
    unlike the Christ story... there was no resurrection.
so hans and gerda travel to the place where
einar depicted the landscape in his revisions,
       and both of them are standing there
        and it's ****** pulverising with so much depth
upon being so little when reduced to a canvas
but because you see the painting first, do you later
see the landscape with more emotion...
     and i thought to myself: gerda will recreate
the landscape in her own eyes, she'll what he saw
and what he gave up for her to paint him in his
transformative (transfigurative) state of becoming
lili elbe...
                     that's why i was about to cry -
     that she could put lili aside, and return to /
resurrect the memory of einar the locally famous
artist... that she would apply the same technique in
painting lili / einar but turn her attention to
landscapes... as if to imply that both of them became
reunited before all the madness of life came chasing them
into extremes.
          to my dissatisfaction? after the film ended
and before the credits started rolling... postscriptum facts
after these true events... she continued to paint
lili / einar as she did, which prompted her to fame
on the Parisian estrade; after seeing that, written down?
tears? what tears... i'm actually thankful that i choked
on them and didn't do an outburst necessarily...
thank **** i wasn't watching the film alone!
     i know that i might have invoked a sense of:
rough around the edges with this description, but i'm hoping
it's abstract enough to make the film more potent:
filling the blanks with images;
still, this was used for a transgender movement?
                                                did he make it plainly obvious
that this was a transcendental transgender iconoclasm?
         it's the platonic element in it that steers this whole
story, away from what 21st century movements regard
as prototype for their ******.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2013
Welcome Back To This, Your Isle



The rabbits beneath the deck,
Even the pesky deer who eat the shrubbery,
Sea creatures, living and spirits of the dead,
Lying on the paths and in the creeks of Silver Beach,
All inquire:

Was it better wherever you went?

Were the:

Bears, hiding in the forests outside Berlin,
Eagles, double headed, of Russia
Herring, fried, creamed, wined,
From the vendors on the docks of
Helsinki, Riga, Visby and Tallinn,
Salmon, smoked and cured in Stockholm,
More impressive,
Tastier than our striped bass,
Island cohorts of yours, who waited patiently
For their chronicler to return?

Did the Little Mermaid and her Dolphin
Guardians of the Port of Copenhagen
Welcome you more warmly than your friends,
The ospreys, lizards, turtles and owls
Who overwatch your steps and safety
When hiking in Mashomack Preserve?

Are the interlacing tidal creeks,
Woodlands, fields, salt marshes and the ragged,
Irregular but charmed coastline of this cherished island
Any lesser than those of Scandinavia?

Are the sea-going ferries that transverse the
Baltic Sea and the Gulf of Finland,
More poetic than the Menantic or the Lt. Joe,
Who carry you swiftly home to us?

The National Geographic people say that in
Tivoli Gardens, The Amerikaner (ha!) waffle ice cream cone
Is one of the ten best in the world.
Guessing they have not made it yet to the
Tuck Shop for some Moose Tracks!

Were you unaware that our isle settled before
Peter the Great ever envisioned creating the grand
Boulevards of his capitol, St. Petersburg,
Route 114 was a traveled forest path,
By settlers and Indians, not serfs.

Of the Treasures, the Gold Room of the Hermitage,
The Amber Room of Catherine's Palace,
Wrote not a single word, we observe.
Your attentions, they did not deserve?

The answers all, self evident.

Here, surrounded by the gentle breezes of
Long Island Sound and Gardiners Bay,
Sweet and salty flavors of the Peconic atmosphere,
Words unlocked, from your eyes to the page fall,
Smudged by joyous tears, for the muses of the island
Have embraced you yet again and rebirthed
Inspiration, within their comforting, sheltering grasp.


Silver Beach

July 22, 2012
Terry Collett Sep 2017
Dalya argued in harsh whispers
with the Yank girl in the back of
the mini bus. Don't want to know
about who you've spread your

skinny thighs for. Benny couldn't
focus on Solzhenitsyn's book on
the labour camps and for whom
her legs were spread. He closed

the depressing book with its red
cover and Solzhenitsyn's gaze
looking at him. Yank Girl, reddening
muttered: just chitchat in confidence,

not for all and sundry. We're coming
into Copenhagen, the driver/guide said.
Yank Girl looked daggers at Dalya,
then gazed out a window. Dalya wiped

spittle from her lips and wiped her hand
on her jeans. Benny wondered who it
was that lay between her thin thighs.
Not him; may be the guide or bearded

Aussie or the school teacher with
the red ears. Dalya sat back and
held his hand. Her  fingers entwined
with his, skin on soft skin. Last night
she spread her wings and he was in.
Benny outside Copenhagen in 1974
Echoes Of A Mind Mar 2016
Wandering alone on a dark street
Not knowing where I am
My phone ran out of battery
Now I can't even use "Maps"
It's too dark to see
The signs on the houses
Copenhagen in a nutshell
I'm not surprised...

A stranger walks over towards me
With his eyes fastened on me
In my head panic rises
A thought screaming
******!, ******!
**** paranoia!
Calmly he asks me
Do you know where I am?
He was just a lost boy like I...

We discover
That we both are looking
For the same building
So we walk together
While we keep talking
Just like me
This guy doesn't know
Copenhagen that well
But we found the college
And said our farvel...

It's funny how two heads
Can be better than one
Since none of us
Would have found the college
On our own
But two heads only works
As long as it isn't about feelings
Because then everything
Becomes a mess...

Since there's no one
Who always
Will be feeling the same
As you
And there's no safty
That you and he
Will make peace
After having argued
But that is how
Life's supposed to be...

So this stranger and I
Only managed to function
As a team
Since we were working
On an assignment
Two lost boys
Looking for the college
And then we both know
That we won't meet again...
Just a random poem...
Bellie-boo Nov 2013
It was such a delightful evening,
When,
He came to say "Sorry but I am leaving."
I felt  my breath stop my heart pause  but then,
"I love love you still.
As you should know.
I always have and I alway will.
To  prove my love to you I shall show.
That for every place and everyday,
I travel farther,
I will find someway to say,
You are my only true lover."
So with that he went,
Leaving the promise of a postcard for days away he said.
And everyday one was sent,
And everyday one was read.

Moscow, Russia
Time here is quiet cold,
I hope in my absence that your heart has not been sold.

Copenhagen, Denmark
The people here are sweet,
For you any man I'd beat.

Warsaw, Poland
At my hotel the  floor buttons stars at zero then works up it took nearly an hour to get to my room,
When I get home into your heart  shall I zoom.

Nicosia, Cyprus
The only place to have a map  on its falg till  2008,
You are my desier's only bait.

San Jose, Costa rica
There are so many people here it seems like you can't go five feet without hitting some one,
Love you more then the moon and stars ***.

Addis aababa, Ethiopia
I love you still,
I always will.

Helsiniki, Finland
Their school education is ranked number one,
Maybe we should move and start a family four kids, a cat, a dog could be fun.

Cairo, Egypt
The sites here are amazing (much more than just sand),
What size do  you supose you'd wear for a wedding band?

Athens, Greece
They say it's the cradil of civilization,
They pride themselfs on civilization.

Reykjavik, Iceland
Aka: suprizingly not cold,
Hope my  rambles arn't getting too old.

Male, Maldives
The capital was built on a 2sq mile island yet there are hardly any beaches,
What's in season there again, Peaches?

Bucharest, Romania
While the older men chase after me with sharp sticks the young ladys scream for kisses (grandma says it has something to do with Twilight?)
MY LOVE AND WISHES.

...
.............
...

I go to work without a note,
All I can do is hope.

The day is silent,
nothing was sent.

I walk home as it starts to poor,
My hearts acks soar.

My unbrella's red dome gleams in the gloomy sky,
At my doorstep there is this guy.

His cap pulled down soaked to the bone,
He pulls out a slip of paper that shone.

I take and read it...

HERE, Now
I pray you still love me,
I swear there isn't a fee.
If you still love me,
Pray it be.

"My paciante child, will you marry me?"
Tears form and  he is all I can see.

"Yes!"
My hair is an awful mess.

But I don't care,
I sling my arms around him a hug is the first thing in years we share.

"I love you, too."
Natalie Clark Aug 2014
You drunk texted me
Last night from Copenhagen.
I've missed that too much.
Echoes Of A Mind Mar 2016
I'm tired
And since I'm not eating
Then my energy
Is non-existing
I'm barely keeping my eyes open
As I type in the words
For this poem.

I'm trying not to make typos,
But it's hard when you only see
A cloudy version of the keyboard
Since your eyelids are slowly closing.

Outside people are enjoying
The sun
Which for once
Are shining over Denmark
But I'm just sitting inside
The University of Copenhagen
Occupying myself
So that there's no time
For crying

I bought myself a new book
One by Niccolò Machiavelli
I plan to read it
In the holiday
And I'm really looking forward to this
Since through the last four years
People have often recommended me
To read it...

So while Green Day's "Panic Song" is playing
On my headphones
I'll finish my poem
And return to my book
'Cause though I'm tempted
Then I can't keep wasting my time
Writing poems
Just to I keep myself occupied.
Maybe I'll take the book
And go read outside
In the sunshine...
Ok....Back to work!.. :)
Myria Mandell Nov 2012
A half-breed is what I am
Its a term that I use loosely
Proud to be described as such
The product of my parents who are
Of opposite backgrounds
I have been exposed to the best,
And worst, of both their worlds
I use this exposure to my advantage
My knowledge allows me to adapt

The Mandells taught me manners
With little white gloves
And a matching hat
Salad fork and dinner fork
Napkin on my lap
Eating shrimp and sipping milk
Baked brisket and baked goods
Spanish Cream and Charlotte Rousse
are variations of the same food

Peanut butter and jelly?
Ill have lamb chops, dad would say
Live-in maid and manicured lawn
Apple trees out back
Playing Cowboy with play guns
Country Club and Boy Scout Camp
Silver service, crystal glasses,
Matching furnishings
Copenhagen figurines
Everythings antique
Draw the drapes in the evening
Mandell & Dreyfus Clothing Store
Located right downtown
He was well fed and well clothed
Under a beautiful roof
Lacking only a sense of real family

The Sisneros taught me family
It was all they could afford
Hillbillies raised in a rural place
Ranching and rodeos and rundown rock houses
Ten of them in a two-room house,
No running water, with dirt floors,
Ceiling plastered with catalog pages with
Flower water used for paste
Playing Sears Catalog paper dolls
Grandma had too many mouths to feed
To worry about how good it tastes
She cooked a mass
She made it fast, a little burnt
Tortillas, Chile, and beans
Typical New Mexican cuisine
Chicken Necks,
Baked small intestine
Wound around left over fat,
Bull Testicles, Blood, Liver,
Dead flies trapped in scrambled eggs
Grandpa stabbing pies
Nothing wasted

Music, singing, and dance
Thats how they passed the time
Spending evenings entertaining
Grandpa singing, guitar playing
Classic Spanish and
Country songs from that time

And these two who spawned me
For I am their offspring
Came together when they were
Not much younger than me
And have been ever since

Their races and classes
Are what set them apart
As opposite as morning and afternoon
When I once thought I should choose
Which ethnicity and which religion
I should be relating to
They allowed me to form my own ideas
My own sense of spirituality
Who I am
Feeling what I feel
Believing what I please
These two people
They just let me be
LJ May 2016
In Lisbon, we blended
ended the day with spectacular culinary
Shopped and hopped side to side

In Dublin, we vented
as the whisky and Guinness was **** good
Shipped the hire car to Galway

In Italy, we invented
dropped coins in fountains of love we already held
From Florence, to Milan, to Rome, to Bologna

In Paris, I rented
alone in protests and hippies at Place De La Republique
Dreamt of you as they skated

In Romania, I persisted
up on the icy Tranfagarasan highway traps
I saw a bear and it had your eyes

In Stockholm, we insisted
As the Vasa sunk on tables of *****
Pecked on the trains and shied away.

In London, we protested
It was an ordinary day and the flowers didn't bloom
The Thames was gloomy and stale

In Oslo, we transmitted
The reindeer meal and cranberry was a disaster
The gloom followed us to southern skies

In Copenhagen, you were sorted
Smiled and amused by the Tivoli gardens
The night became day and the wind withered

In Amsterdam, we did what we did
Stored the memories on the reclaimed lands
Free-spirited in love and in eternity
It doesn't exist so far
but in my mind I have pictured it all
If we want to, we can
(I guess)

Won't you come to Copenhagen with me, baby?

We've already been there, in Wonderland
Won't we come back, and call the whiteness back?
I think of you and I alone
I think of a world just for us
And I shiver in my chair
I know I want to be there
I know I belong there, in your arms.
In your body, in your realm.
In your bed.

I want to be close to you
I need to be whole by sharing my core
but not with anyone
just you, my love...

A communion of us
awaits
Pure love
Won't you come with me to Copenhagen baby?
Squanto Jan 2014
We are separated
Like the sky and the earth

You are filled with potential that once felt like expectation
the ruggedness of a thousand wild stallions running to the course of their strong united heartbeats
and of the sweat and blood that you've merited your endeavors with

I am filled with ribbons of gentle caresses and a familiarity with the unnoticed weight long hair brings
determination like that of the tired
ceaseless tide that rises up again each morning
and of sweet and salty compulsions

We are separated
Like the Heavens and Earth

You are more than the smell of leather and Copenhagen
You are more than the litter of miscellaneous items next to an inevitable jar of change sitting on your wooden dresser
an exact replica of the Skaggs males' before you.
You are more than calloused hands and a beautiful voice that crawls out and harmonizes with cicadas in the heavy heat lingering into the August night.
You are more than the millions of melodies you've blessed us with
More than the far away look in your hazel eyes as you master your guitar
More than your hearty laugh that delights my soul
More than your kind spirit
More than your careful words
More than your wise wife
More than your delicate girl that I hear call me Aunt
But these things stack on top of one another
Like bricks of a building under construction
Beams of titanium not unlike a skeleton protude into the clouds
Ultimately creating the tower I will proudly claim as my older brother
Directing my acquaintances' attention to the structure that
in this moment
unfinished even
eclipses the sun
Casts a shadow over me
a cool blanket of security
I know the closer that I draw to you
the less I will see of the shambles of other buildings that never compared to you
My view of the misleading wooden structures behind you that will be set afire or deteriorate in the constant turning of gears in the clock of time
will be obscured by your sheer splendor

We are separated
Like the sky and the earth underneath me

And just like the two we are connected further down
The horizon
where we will meet is filled with bittersweet triumph painted in the oranges and pinks of the sunset
I turn and see the horizon behind me
where we began
in all of its plainess
Our childhood in a gray
Hillcrest Terrace
Friday night prayer
Denim and pattles
Oatmeal and cough drops
Iced tea and lilac bushes
All threaded neatly into the full drops of rain that fall from you to I
Connecting the ground and the sky
I turn back to the front and admire what I imagine it will be
Our children's loose teeth
and long cramped car rides
Porch swings and homeschool books
Owned land and old trees
Laughter and loyalty
Irony and victory

We are separated
Like the sky and the ground

But we run in the same direction
not interrupting the others' path
I was not there with you when you let the heaviness of the thoughts in your head fall into your awaiting hands as your shoulders shook
Every ragged breath tinged with cheap whiskey
But I have followed suit of my own accord
I was not there with you when you questioned your very identity until you wondered if you would  recognize yourself if he called you by name
But I may have been caught contemplating the same
I was not there with you when you were overanalyzing one of our sisters' new boyfriend's character and gauging his deservingness
But I often did exactly that
And I was not there with you when you fell in love with your beautiful lady and decided to make her yours
But I was praying for it to be her

An endless fire burns inside me
Searching for
courage I won't have
and words I can't find
Until I can heat you with these flames
I will continue to look at you while you are preoccupied and let the words choke in my neck as reverence floods me for this man who
like his father
remains oblivious to his massive impact and priceless company
Terry Collett Feb 28
If it hadn't been
for the fact,
that the fish-faced girl
I shared a tent with,
had gone off,
for part of the day,
to see the sights
of Copenhagen,
Benny and I
wouldn't have been able
to enjoy each other's company,
in the confines
of the canvas tent,
without the horrific look
on her face
as she watched us.

Afterwards we lay back
and smoked.

Why are you reading
that book on Soviet
labour camps?
I asked.

To find out about it,
he replied.

Do you care
what happened to people
in a foreign clime?
I said.

Yes,
he said,
because it could happen
else where,
even here.

What Denmark?
I said.

Anywhere else,
he said,
looking at me:
Millions perished.

My uncle and aunt
perished in Auschwitz,
under the Nazis,
because they were
Polish Jews,
I said,
my parents were in London
when war broke out,
so survived
or I wouldn't be.

We became silent.

I wonder how our friend
is enjoying Copenhagen?
I said,
breaking the silence.

A lot,
he said and smiled.

We stubbed out
the cigarette butts,
and turned and kissed;
something else
our friend had missed.
I know your wishing to do the things you once were itching.
Some words of wisdom would help you body stop the itching.
This chair of lies declines, your track of life.
Overflows the light, and withstanding might.
Stepping stones they broke into small sheets of ice.
Drenched and cold the frost bite will take your life.
Magic making the fancy wound is the tool for taking.
Your head is flaking mistakes that you had started making.
(You cry)
Princess princess please don't take away my wound.
You stupid full ill drowned you in a 6 foot pound.
And I'll count the bubbles as they begin to surface.
With my endurance Insurgence they won't need insurance.
So take a minute to sit down and grab some courage.
Your gonna need it the fenex is coming out of storage. 
To burn to ash the cowards and all the Allen Howard's 
Copenhagen I ran again in a grizzly pouch.
It was plenty so many who was the one keeping count.
Distinguished persons your yuppies just using daddy's checks 
Your dicusting just buying things with no intent. 
Plant water a Yankee Candle is a perfect date
Perfect smile pretty eyes is a perfect trait.. Wait
judy smith Oct 2016
At any given moment, it seems there is a fashion week happening somewhere in the world - be it Sydney, Istanbul, Dubai, Seoul, Moscow, Toronto, Copenhagen or Lagos (to name a few).

But the latest entrant may be the most surprising: Silicon Valley.

Or, as the organisers style it: Silicon Valley Fashion Week?!.

The punctuation marks as part of the title are a self-aware nod to the incongruity of marrying the location, known for its allegiance to hoodies, Tevas and T-shirts, to a fashion event.

But that does not mean they are any less serious about its potential.

The three-day annual event, which finished its second turn over the weekend in San Francisco, bills itself as "part fashion show, part variety show, part trade show" and is open to the public, unlike the usual fashion industry events. This year, about 30 brands were featured and tickets, at US$20 (S$28), sold out, with about 500 people attending each day.

It was staged by Betabrand, a San Francisco company that builds its clothing catalogue by crowdsourcing design ideas and, after seeing which take off, crowdfunding the production of the prototypes to see which ones people will actually want to buy. Examples include a "mind the gap" blouse that stretches to fit the body's contours and a dress that uses a trademarked reflective material.

The event exists at the nexus of Burning Man, wearable technology and the Maker Movement, home of inventors, designers and other do-it-yourself types. Pebble Smartwatch presented a Smarthole Hoodie, a standard hoodie design with sleeves that extend over the thumbs and have a movable panel around the wrist to make gaining access to the company's device easier; and Tinsel offered headphones that can be worn as a necklace.

Alison Lewis, who holds a design and technology master's degree from Parsons School of Design in New York, showed three items: a lambskin leather handbag embedded with LED bulbs that can be rearranged in different patterns with an app; a T-shirt that does the same; and a dress with lights that undulate with the wearer's heartbeat.

"Technology is a tool. It's how we use it that's really exciting," she said. "We could have less clothing in our closets and have pieces that change and work with our moods and personalities on a daily basis."

Lewis has not had a chance to present her work in other fashion shows and, so far, she has not been able to mass-produce her items. She commended the fashion week as a place to experiment.

She was not the only designer struggling with the challenge of manufacturing what she displayed.

However, as wearables increasingly enter mainstream fashion, with designers from Ralph Lauren to Zac Posen dipping their creative toes into technology, the idea of clothing patterns controlled by apps, of drone delivery, and of customisation that allows - maybe even asks - its wearers to make a choice each and every day, seems less far-fetched and more like fashion's possible future.

Which, unlikely as it may be, puts the Silicon Valley event on the style front line.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses | http://www.marieaustralia.com/red-formal-dresses
Kenn Rushworth Aug 2016
Once felt in the lonely, identical corridors
of hotels, hostels, hallways of homeless flatblocks;
The urge,
The urge to move the moment,
Move the momentum of the meandering life
From work to shop to sleep to work to shop to sleep,
Supplanted by the unattainable mental utopia,
Supplanted by delusions in the colour of dreams,
Supplanted by 10,000 madman notes on the nature of daylight,
Tender sounds accelerated into screams,
Lost in the pylon forest,
Trapped by Tendonitis, Tinnitus, and terrestrial TV,
Stifling the electoral laugh,
Deafened by D-beat, Dubstep, and Democratic conventions,
Bled to death in Bosnia,
Died in Damascus,
Executed in Entebbe,
Murdered in Mogadishu,
Born in Berlin,
Lived in London,
Carried in Copenhagen,
And again in Amsterdam,
Until tomorrow’s endless oceans
Forecast nothing of their waves,
Until tomorrow’s endless oceans
Safely say their real names.
Miss X Mar 2014
Do you remember that one time
we sat on a wood bench looking
at a beautiful, architectural fountain
in the crowded city of Copenhagen?
We did not have to talk
because we very much knew
what each other were thinking.
I shed a few tears
and you held your arms around me
my umbrella kept falling down
Both of us in matching denim pieces
and I wore
that little black dress you love on me

Do you remember that one time?
I was sad because I knew
you had to go to soon
I was scared that we would never
see each other again
but on a windy January evening you proved me wrong
as we shared our first kiss
in five months
© YSB
tread Jun 2013
Instability.

Keyword: instability.

Mid-May and the room has a blue cold, runny nose, condensation clasping the window like a quiet leech. Through the narrow chinks of my cavern, I can glimpse a computer surrounded by world in peripheral; fish eye vision like religious fervor, I realize life has made a lasting impression on whatever I am.

whatever I am.

Dream fades to life, life fades to dream, some alien language crash landed on Earth and now we all speak English (except, you know, the ten thousand other dialects all branched from the Indo-European earth worm). People like to say that everything changes. Nothing stays the same. Does the fact of change never change? Does that not make constants a possibility, even if only within the Many World Interpretation of Quantum Physics (capitalized! it's a name and 'Quantum Physics' likes playing the smiling subtitle ( :) ) ) now I wasn't in Copenhagen the day a jury of physicists decided on Reality; but I was in Reality (capital R) so I'm sure that counts for something.

They say they don't know who 'they' are; as if a brief allusion to a greater network somehow invalidates the point (but 'they' is the 'you' you decide to ignore; the 'you' composite of influences 'you' simply grew around; 'they' is the part of yourself 'you' keep tucked away comfortably like a newborn child that doesn't know any better).
Ludlow Feb 2017
he flew to Denmark
with a bag of ideas.
the plane was a year late
causing him to forget his name.
the museum was smaller
than expected and capable
of rolling away.

“it this the place?”
“yes,” they said.

his only option was cubism
which he did not understand.
a woman pointed at a cloud.
“a homecoming parade,” she laughed.

the best restaurant in the world
was down the street.
he made a reservation for the year 2075.
he wasn’t sure about cuisine
but had time to ****.

at the intersection he went the wrong way
and had to use an idea to get out

of the story.
K Balachandran Jul 2012
I won't mind being surreal,
if you won't scurry
seeing me in my real self,
and kind enough not to
think of me as outlandish
as something like 'Shrodinger's cat'
kept in a box
that is both alive and dead!
(to the universe outside the box
as the' Copenhagen interpretation' implies,
dont ask me how!)

I am least interested in'quantum entanglement'
which i can do without, but oh! mathematics
that mother of all sciences is hell bent, it seems
to hunt me down till I say uncle.

They have  told me ,
what I am now
is not mathematically possible!
(whatever it means)
They looked at me as if
I don't exist.

(Oh! my poor Shrodinger's cat
I now understand your plight;
oh ! to be both dead and  'undead' theoretically
when reality chooses to go naked!)

I just said this:
I have no use to mathematics
that refuses to believe in me
if maths find me unacceptable
all I want to say is this,
how would maths even touch poetry with a barge pole?
and don't forget, maths creates the poetry of the universe!

Oh! I am confused
forgive me for being Buridan's ***
that sees in maths 'Shrodinger's cat'



They looked horrified
and in a moment
turned to thick smoke
and dissolved!
Its better to learn to live with the contradictions that exist in the universe; do you believe that you exist?
Ken Pepiton Apr 2019
krause asu
AN accident.

That's how, but why?
Many universes, many realities, imaginable

conceivable

how long must one live in a cardboard box
to confess the experienced
boxtime
altered next from then to now.

Copenhagen Calvinist or Lutherin or Anabaptist

holier than I, as was I, as the Hermit hidden
in the fool on the hill,
telling secret meanings to nowhere man, now
here
we're...

touching a time when knowing out paced known
knowables, imaginables were

imagined, not evil, but fine tuned to approach
per fection in effect

what more can I ask? All my debts are paid.

Accidental debt accrual demands accidental debt relief.

Political-lic, that's where my party stands.

Jubilee, nowhere has the ver been
a time like

now. We being at all, as mere words, heard only once,
never uttered

utter non sensed tone tuned to augmented minds

-- bio logic circuit
-- try a spark

Gleam in grandpa's eye, try umph, boy. Better up.

Swing and there is the crack of the bat

never heard, a clap

just now, you are on the ball, and this is
what that always means,
history-wise.

Okeh. Like safe. No war. Okeh. Mark to follow, someday.

biologic circuitry is so unbelievable,

to whom? All who see the supsumpsystems and the info resources,
re re re, every, meaning as if ever were in
finite, every things reasonable countable and measured,

AN ark is a box. Rectangular, most oft.
A box. Hermits live in boxes, some times,

with a coven-ante-cipitate, tincture
of this and that, with a drop o' Paracelsus fave,
Hermetic hermenuetic magishit.
Mercury, liquid conducter, okeh.

You axt a reason for the faith in the wrong *******
autodidactic augmented and medicated old man.

I hapt to save a dammercury switch from an old thermostat,
with a bi-metal coil we could
spring
into action and launch afacethefact face that fact face of fact
fracture
tap. Twist it, there, balance, level, spirit levels bubble
hermetic form flow act
ioncat ion quest
ion--

spark-- the idea imagicish dealybob- gleam
right

the feeling of gleam. Toothpaste imparts
*** appeal, I pana imparts diligence, pepsodent is perfect
for explosive types averse to yellow,
stripe,
oh my god,
game changer. Hidden persuaders never saw us,

by stripe are we healed and made bright white and loveable,
said the tooth from the future, we learned, in school, to love
each night, with a brisk brush before our
prayer for no cavities could be answered.

tap right there.

Gem quality. The meaning of life, I magine, is more.
a simple, as they say, muse. A little think on being the ball.
Prodding the yellow orphans,
Polaroids of the dawns burning children,
The guide stops and turns,
A thick cliff side rye,
He catches them in a cage, splint by abuse,
He recognizes the faces.

Sometimes, when he's laying in bed;
He spreads his arms and legs out as far as possible.
It makes him feel like he's been splattered on a sidewalk,
Makes him feel a sense of freedom.

Rolling beneath his eyelids,
Consuming another consciousness,
Underneath a rising Prometheus,
He'll wake up soon,
That's the hardest part.
The summer sun rose at 3 am. By then we had already hightailed out of Stockholm, en route south. The purple horizon slowly lifted the veil of darkness and the motion of the van returned to its former realm of concrete movement as we rocked along the long continental avenue. The sun gleamed through open windows onto my arms and legs, making the hairs on my neck stand at attention and awe of white light fissioning into a nebula of vivid color in motion, occupying the entirety of my vision. It was as if, for a brief moment, I had forgotten past failures and obstacles. Was it because of some arbitrary sense of perseverance and skill, or was it a mere karmic turn? Who could tell(?) The radio crackles and fades just before I turn it off. Heller leans forward to tamper with the switches on the radio to find a station. I slapped his hand in spite and I don’t know why it did it. Heller laughs it off and continued to make fun of South-state Americans and juggalos.
- “‘The juggalos made me the ******* I am today,’ ya, that’s pretty evident, you fat drugged up loser. You should should go **** your sister’s purdy mouth,” Mackay laughs wholeheartedly. Andrew leans forward and puts a hand on my shoulder.
- “Hey, man. Are you alright? You look a tad pale.” Andrew shifts his facade to slight sarcasm, like he always would to veil his genuine care.
- “Yeah, I’m fine. Haven’t really eaten anything, and the coffee is wearing off.”
- “Do you wanna put something on the tape-deck? Let’s pick one you’re familiar with, so that you can sing along to keep your head up. These slobs won’t be helping you, trust me. They’ll be sleeping in good conscience in a few minutes.”
- “Yeah, cat, that’s not such a bad idea. Put on some Jason Molina. It’s not exactly upbeat, but I know every ****** depressed word.”
I hum and sing along with Emilio, Devin and Mackay as the rest slept away the sorrows of folly and deprivation. We had finally made our way out of Sweden, crossing the immense Oresund Bridge, towering over us with cables running up and down, thicker than our waists. The fog lay over Copenhagen Bay, as the sun peeks over it like Kilroy writing his mark on the horizon wall. 8 kilometers across, connecting the fragmented Scandinavian continent, suspended 60 meters above the malicious Skagen Sea, writhing, twisting and smashing away in the stiff morning wind. Walk along the suspension on a wire, not caring either way if you fall or remain in your shoes. We had already leapt away from the strange comfort of our apartments, shrouded in exhaust, hardship and simplicity of mind, to get a feel of the real world, a world that robs you at knife point, stabs you and leaves you to bleed away in beautiful chrysalis alleys, with the stars glinting away in your vidi, not able to care one bit. Leaving the pots and pans ***** in the sink at home, leaving late night parties, static beds, self consumption, bitterness and white knuckles, we found ourselves on a frontier. A lackluster frontier by ancient standards, but complacency being the dominant dogma of modern day life, a frontier nonetheless. We are the riders of high waves, and rogues on the dusty trails, for thousands of miles, until time suspends itself, and we lose grip. We may not have revolvers or boats, but our van is our weapon. And we are going to use it. The bridge descends into the flatlands of Denmark, where the highest point is a lump of lawn and the people are friendly and clever. A few friends of ours had told us tour stories from bands that were, about a concert being held in a glass octagon cube in the middle of a desolate plain, and the place was packed with young sophistos and the remaining cultural aristocracy of Denmark. Too bad we ain’t stoppin’.
The carnival in my head pushes into high gear with song and magic marker signs, spinning around in circles through streets filled with people screaming at the top of their lungs. I listen to the mechanism churning away, greased by coffee, in the scorching noon Apollonian torture.
Excerpt from my upcoming book "Elliptical Scopes."
ConnectHook Feb 2016
(by Bruce Bawer)

In Sønderberg the other day
A teenage girl used pepper spray
To rout a randy “refugee”
From somewhere far across the sea
Who threw down and molested her.
The cops arrested her.

As part of a jihadist plot,
A brute assailant took a shot
At a fine Copenhagen man
Who'd deprecated the Quran.
When the brave soul who'd nearly died
Then publicly identified
The **** who'd tried to **** him, he
Was charged with grave delinquency:
Breaching privacy.

In Mölndal, a Somali teen
Plunged a long blade into the spleen
Of a young Swedish altruist
Who'd yearned to do one thing: assist.
The land's top cop went on TV
And trumpeted his sympathy.
For the poor girl who'd lost her life?
No. For the kid with the knife.

At one time it was understood
That a devotion to the good
Didn't mean one should be blind
To evil, or pretend to find
Some virtue in sheer villainy.
To see what isn't there to see
Is not a sign of rectitude.
To point out evil isn't rude;
To fight it is good.

You can't, however hard you try,
Mistake for a speck in the eye
A loaded *** in the hands
Of some rough beast from foreign sands
Intent on taking out a child.
You'll win no points for being mild
To members of a desert creed
That seeks to make the heathen bleed
And preaches that the kind and meek
Are contemptibly weak.

Christ said to turn the other cheek.
But what if it's not just your cheek?
from: http://www.frontpagemag.com/fpm/261801/our-time-bruce-bawer
Moon Aug 2017
snow falling, like i could stick out my tongue and eat it
you take me to the porridge shop to fill me up

the stomach of the round tower rises like a breath
we take steps like lambs running between their mothers’ legs
in any case, from the top you can see she has many moons

we ate mexican food afterwards, then cake and wine
i tell you how i always leave in the thick of it
well. ‘love is appetite’ you said.

— The End —