Jeg drejer min antikke globus
hvor skal turen gå hen?
Et sted fjernt, et sted opdigtet eller et sted i mit sind?
Et sted med kærlighed?
Et sted med fred?
Et sted med lykke?
Et sted med overskud?
Et sted uden savn?
Et sted uden tårer?
Min sjæl hungrer efter alle disse ting
Jeg ved godt jeg er elsket
og jeg ved godt jeg ikke er alene
det gør bare så fandens ondt
når livet er noget rod
og man føler det hele sejler
og bølgerne er lige så store
som på det åbne, kolde og dybe hav.
Derfor drejer jeg min globus og drømmer
og håber på bedre tider

*(Marolle)

Passed, tense
           Under the glass, we shone;
the windows, daring each of us to shatter, was my
           feeling.
But there we idled, I sat up adjusting my lap--
           unmistakably you inched back.
What air, bag, hallowed, spinning!

          We give gas and speed off collectively, until the light
Source leaps into the dying sun or mutates into red.
          Your mouth, inaudible above the unstifflable drone
of the exodus from the city-- the people rushing out, away
from what sustains them.
          The light, falls into position, bekonning, you coward.
          Passed, tense
          Under the glass, we shone;
and you were the heaving globus--
          nothing, but a tertiary object
          clumsily laden with meaning by
          the tides and orbiting bodies in
          the cooling sunlight.
          With your archaic gleaming
Who would have guessed
          that I would follow you to
         Saturnalia?
Why Cleave, me, useless, tire!

you had a lump in your throat every time you spoke,
it should’ve disappeared but your voice became a croak

you cleared your throat a lot,
for every word that got caught

you stopped talking about your passions;
i think your heart had run out of its rations

you helped others out many times before,
but suddenly your reassurance was no more

your silences grew longer;
i should’ve known you were a goner

you left all these warnings,
yet here i was, in mourning.

1.
There once was a couple of cats
Who engaged in continuous spats.
          The result was a tie
          When each scratched out an eye –
An old-Biblical *** for a tat!

The cats awoke bleeding and weak
And half-seeing the havoc they'd wreaked
          They discarded their clothes,
          Their backsides to expose –
A new-Biblical turning of cheek!

2.
There once was a man, oh so brave,
Who would sleep in a hole, called a grave ...
          Well, he being the host
          To so many a ghost,
He arranged a big bash, called a rave

3.
In days of Neanderthal knaves
When the men ruled like kings in their caves
          And not being too keen
          About keeping them clean ...
Often took on some wives, called them slaves

4.
There once was a man with a stave
Overseeing a holy enclave ...
          Well, maintaining a grin
          While absolving the sin,
He assessed wicked tales and forgave

5.
There once was a monk with a wave
Who desired a head with a shave ...
          Well, the barber was such
          That she cut back too much
Thereby leaving his globus concave

6.
There once was a man in the nave,
Although pious he could not behave ...
          But they paid him no mind,
          ’Cause his name was maligned,
Being simply a sinner to save

7.
There once was a man quite depraved
A voluptuous life was thus craved ...
          Well, continuous sin
          Ended doing him in –
On his tombstone they carved ‘Misbehaved’

8.
Antoine is a Vampire Ghoul,
Quite barbaric, bloodthirsty and cruel,
          With a fang in your throat
          He’ll **** slowly and gloat
With a smile as you whimper and mewl.

9.
There once was a raven haired Shrink
Who had orange Juice Tequilas to drink.
          Well her scarlet souled Beau
          ****** her tinted red Toe
And she paled when he tickled her Pink.

10.
There once was a travelling sage
Who yet lived to a very old age.
          Well, becoming quite senile,
          With problems (yes, ******),
He packed his wee trunk in a rage.

11.
There once was a Nun and a Druid
Exchanging some ****** fluid,
          When along strode the Father
          Who heard all the bother,
Lost stickum while coming  unglu..ed.

I go to church each Sunday,
God warns ‘there’s much to fear,
the world is decomposing,
the final end is near’.

I go to church each Sunday
and taste the wine and bread,
though elsewhere on our globus
raw hunger reigns instead.

I go to church each Sunday,
hear preachers’ words rebuff
repentant pauper’s pleading
‘enough is not enough’.

I go to church each Sunday,
watch candles burning bright
although they don’t enlighten      
the demons of the night.

I go to church each Sunday
to wash away my sin,
while prophets make their profits
with wars that do us in.

I go to church each Sunday,
think thoughts incessantly
of all our planet’s peoples
denied equality.

I go to church each Sunday,  
sit peacefully in the nave
while folks afar seek, grieving,
throughout a boundless grave.

I go to church each Sunday
to view iconic forms
alive in lancet windows
that hide unholy storms.

I go to church each Sunday,
discharge the weekly tithe,
while others pay the piper
when Reaper whets his scythe.

I go to church each Sunday
regard the holy bell,
reflecting on the wastelands
where day and night they knell.

I go to church each Sunday,
hear persons of the cloth
disguise the hell hereafter
with wartime victory froth.

I go to church each Sunday,
half perched upon a pew;
with everything so hopeless,
what else can one but do?

I go to church each Sunday,
and gaze upon the steeple,
majestic as the rockets
that plunge on placid people.

I go to church each Sunday
to hear the choir’s song
keep time with banshees shrieking
within a world gone wrong.

I go to church each Sunday
(above, doves fly in flocks),
while far flung realms are flattened
beneath the wings of hawks.

I go to church each Sunday
and pray so oft for peace,
but still the death continues,
it never seems to cease.

I go to church each Sunday
to sing sad psalms of praise,
while distant drones are humming
o’er bodies burnt, ablaze.

I go to church each Sunday,
a quest to save my soul
’gainst warfare’s pride and plunder -
prayer never plays a role.

I go to church each Sunday
my errors to confess,
while countries keep on killing
and suffer no redress.

I go to church each Sunday
the future for to see -
a man-made Armageddon
that ends humanity.