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Seven stars in the still water,
And seven in the sky;
Seven sins on the King’s daughter,
Deep in her soul to lie.

Red roses are at her feet,
(Roses are red in her red-gold hair)
And O where her ***** and girdle meet
Red roses are hidden there.

Fair is the knight who lieth slain
Amid the rush and reed,
See the lean fishes that are fain
Upon dead men to feed.

Sweet is the page that lieth there,
(Cloth of gold is goodly prey,)
See the black ravens in the air,
Black, O black as the night are they.

What do they there so stark and dead?
(There is blood upon her hand)
Why are the lilies flecked with red?
(There is blood on the river sand.)

There are two that ride from the south and east,
And two from the north and west,
For the black raven a goodly feast,
For the King’s daughter rest.

There is one man who loves her true,
(Red, O red, is the stain of gore!)
He hath duggen a grave by the darksome yew,
(One grave will do for four.)

No moon in the still heaven,
In the black water none,
The sins on her soul are seven,
The sin upon his is one.
Domen for mine visioner
Det er dine bløde læbers bevægelser
når du taler flydende
Ser stemmen i lydbølger som rammer strandkanten.
Virker lige så smukt som solens lange stråler
Rammer tippen af græsstråene
I en form for sommerlykkeland
En søndag morgen hvor duggen er frisk.
Du får mine øjne til at løbe i vand
Bliver het fanatisk, elektrisk, allergisk
Så du må gå væk, når du kysser mig,
- men bliv ved.
Sommetider når jeg findes spekulerer jeg på,
hvordan det må være
at være
På samme galakse som jer.
Jeg skriger til verdensrummet, men ser ingen stjerner.
Jeg tænker på ekliptika og om tilsyneladende
er konstant.
Eller så var det kirsebær, og hvordan I romantiserer
livet, blondetrusser, smøger og lange mandage.
Men Åh.
Jeg husker dig. Dine måner.
Du duftede af stjerneskyer og smagte af frugtplantager.
E skapere
L igegyldigt
S ex
K opiere
E vigheden
Og nu går det op for dig, at jeg snakkede om at elske.
Men hvad så når vi må gå baglæns for at holde det hele i os?
"Blod fuld af kys" og du var lige så let som duggen fra træerne.
Du minder mig om Vogue.
Jeg lider af Afasi og hænger mig i dine ord.
du euforiserer dig selv.
m Apr 2019
flown over myself, the shedding feathers from black birds that follow me;
my own fingers, pluck the ends from out of my skin,
as the sky shifts,
as the bristling of dead trees offer no shelter,
no warmth from their bony arms.


it's easy to follow silence
i keep her nestled in the hollow of my throat & while it swims into my lungs
all i can do is float
on the squeaking mattress,
against his cold, huge hands
holding me there,
cornered around vibrational gasps.

my body is corroding
my limbs are severed
the insides are flowing out of me
like rushing water.

like, the tub,
filling with pink.
Its shaking stomach rocking me against rusting porcelain.


They sleep among the dead.
I sleep in their duggen-up graves.
here i am.
Annesofie Olsen May 2015
duggen var frisk og klokken var lidt
hovedpine og halv åbne øjne
her er jeg
hvem er det
rundtosset og forvirret efter igår
13 nye billeder
beviser på jeg var væk og ikke helt ædru
ligger og stirre ud i intetheden
det gør mig irriteret
hvorfor kan jeg ikke sove..

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