I want to know what kind of man you are beneath
the surface.
I want to understand what makes your heart beat faster
and what you love. What makes you mad, and why it has
that power over you.
I want to learn if your anger is hot and quick like mine, or
a lingering coldness that freezes those who invoke your
wrath. Do you forgive them when the red mist subsides,
or do you hold a grudge through all of eternity?
I wish I could know how you see me through those quiet
eyes of yours. I want you to tell me if you long to stroke
my hair as we drift off to sleep, or if it’s my curves that
your hands ache for. I wonder if you would message me
goodnight before bed, so that I would never close my eyes
without knowing that I was loved. Perhaps you would
expect my heart to know that already, simply by the way
your face lights up at the sight of mine.
What do you dream of when you close your eyes? Do you
sleep peacefully until the light dapples your skin through
the blinds, or do the tigers prowl around your head,
leaving you shivering in fear in the darkness?
When you are lonely, do you ever think about my smile, or
the way that I always know how to still the demons that
scream inside you? I wonder if I am still vivid in your
awareness, or a distant memory now; a spectre bathed in
the gentle lustre of nostalgia.
Do you chase sunsets or sunrises? I love both. Does the
promise of a shimmering new dawn appeal to you more
than the glow of another day closing in a riot of colour? I
wonder where peace finds you. Will you drink hot tea with
me as the sun blazes through the horizon, reminding us
of the fleeting nature of this life? I think I would like that.
I want to learn if you prefer the bright crackle of a
burning log fire, snuggled up in blankets against the cold,
or the way that the sun plays upon warm limbs, making
them glow golden in the afternoon light. Is it summer that
brings a smile to those lips I covet, or would you
rather turn your face up to taste the snowflakes as they
fall?
I watch to see if you curse the fact that you cannot get to
work in the snow, or if you roll up your sleeves joyfully to
build a snowman. And if you do, I notice whether you give
him a stone mouth so that he might smile upon the
children that wave as they pass him by.
Do you ever fantasise about losing yourself, out there, in
the world? Do you seek the quiet solitude of a wooden log
cabin on the edge of a lake, or do you prefer the lights
and glamour of cocktail dresses in a fancy room full of
raucous laughter?Where do you want to go? What do you
want to see?
Do you hear it when adventure calls out your name and
more importantly, do you answer?
I want to know where you hide, when the world becomes
too much to bear.
Where do you take your freedom?
Is there space for another in your haven, or can I follow
you only so far, then settle patiently to await your return
to me; the reunion all the sweeter for your absence.
See, I wanna know if you have hurt people. Did their tears
rain on your heart, each drop a sharp stinging torment? I
try to imagine if you wear a mask of hardness in the face
of another’s pain, or if you are gentle as you ask for
forgiveness. Do you bleed through another’s wounds?
Can you?
Tell me how you have broken someone you loved, and
whether you were able to fix them again. Did they love
you still when the pieces were put back together? What
horrors live in the bleakest corners of your soul? What do
you think about when you go there?
I want to know the very worst of you.
Share with me the music that plays in your heart, and
whether you dance to the beat of your own drum.
Show me the colour of your love. If you could splash its
brightness onto a waiting canvas, would it burn with
passionate reds and oranges, or would it run still and
strong in a cool turquoise calm?
Tell me if you kiss softly, your lips singing mine a gentle
lullaby, or whether they would rage intently,
scorching new pathways to my heart with a desire that
refuses be stilled. I want to feel it either way.
Show me if you want a sweet girl, or a ***** one. Or a
little of each. What makes you cry out in ecstasy? Is it a
woman that makes you laugh until your stomach hurts, or
one whose beauty takes your breath away with a single
look? Do you look for the quirky ones, perhaps? The ones
who are too easily overlooked, the hidden treasures?
Tell me, would you risk it all for love? Would you fight for
what you truly want, or would you let it slip away into
nothing, never knowing what might have been, because
you never told her that your heart beat only for her? Did
you ever realise she was waiting for you to fight for her?
Will you watch someone else love her because you were
too afraid to be vulnerable with her?
Will you settle for next best, the girl you could maybe
grow to love someday, instead of the one that haunts your
thoughts today? Is that enough for you? Maybe it is.
Could you live with yourself knowing that she got away?
Tell me about a time that you cried until you couldn’t
breathe anymore. Or where you lived through a day where
you prayed for the sweet release of death. Did you make
it through? I have been there. Has your heart been broken
into a million tiny pieces and, if it has, has it made you
hard? Or are you are still open to the beauty that the
world holds for you?
Show me your pain and I will show you mine. I hope it
does not scare you. It has helped me to grow.
I want to know if you talk to the glittering stars above us,
and which one is special to you. What do you think
happens when we die? Do we join their shining ranks in
heaven or is there nothing left for us? Are you afraid of
death? I am. Will you hold my hand if I leave you first? If
you whisper to me that love knows no boundaries, not
even death, will you mean it?
Tell me about your childhood. I want to know the way
your mother’s hair smelled when you crawled exhausted
into her lap, and the way your bedroom looked when you
were 10. Did your father cry when you curled a tiny fist
around his finger for the very first time? I bet he did. I
want to know all the people that you have loved
throughout your life, so that I might love them through
you and with you.
Do you write? Do you draw? I want to know whether you
ache to capture my face with your pencil, preserving the
wonder that lingers softly there. Do you like to express
yourself through words, or action best? Will your hands
illustrate your story as you speak and will I know that you
are lying from the way your lips tremble gently as the
words tumble guiltily from them?
What is your favourite book? Explain to me why it
enraptures you so. Please? It tells me a lot about you. I
love the way people cry when their favourite character
breaks their heart, as though they are an old friend to be
adored. Who is yours? I will seek them out and befriend
them to understand why they have moved you so much.
Lend me your secrets. I’ll keep them safe and I’ll return
them when my picture of you is complete. Whisper into
my ear so that only us two may share them. Do you
believe in magic? I do, now that I have met you.
Tell me your story, for it might well become part of my
story. Let me in. Let me see you. All of you.
I want to know you.*

-Jojo Roden

Here in this dim, dull, double-bedded room,
I play the father to a brace of boys,
Ailing but apt for every sort of noise,
Bedfast but brilliant yet with health and bloom.
Roden, the Irishman, is 'sieven past,'
Blue-eyed, snub-nosed, chubby, and fair of face.
Willie's but six, and seems to like the place,
A cheerful little collier to the last.
They eat, and laugh, and sing, and fight, all day;
All night they sleep like dormice.  See them play
At Operations:- Roden, the Professor,
Saws, lectures, takes the artery up, and ties;
Willie, self-chloroformed, with half-shut eyes,
Holding the limb and moaning--Case and Dresser.

Du forstår ikke, jeg føles ikke levende.
Svævende mellem ingenting, men håbefuld for alting.
Indre kanaler af tårer og billeder.
Strømmende, flydende, men fastsiddende.
Jeg kan elske. Lykkelig, kvalt i en amourøs erotiskstorm.
Føles helt alene, med mit hule indre, vejrtrækninger som gør ondt.
Verden forsvinder i mit indre, og tunge sorte skyer fylder mig op.
Trædende på mig, liggende nede i dybet af tanker
Fæstner mig ved roden af dig. Klamrende efter dit sind.
Et sommerlykkeland. Efterårsparadis. Vinter Wonderland. Forårshimmerig.
Du redder mig, gør mig hel, men du gør mig halv, du glemmer mig.

think ha, ha, there is nothing to think
I think it has all been thought
perhaps not all
for I have just thought it
has all been thought
like a chicken that plucks its own feathers
perhaps one should think solitudes
enormous solitudes
such as one may experience at school
during holiday  time when all have gone but one,
leaving nothing left to think, only a tyranny of dreams
that sob and trickle down burning cheeks
making one almost think of grief
but there’s nothing left to think I tell you
all angels have fled and leave only the stench
of cadaverous thinks that have been thought
and having had that privilege die
fall rotten in the streets their putrid smell
an unthinkable contagion lays siege to the mind
there is nothing left to think, nothing I tell you
everything has been thought
by men in black with absurdly tiny heads
and all the thinks that have been thought
form a silhouette around the sun
in unthinking vengeance blocking out the light
though to sure there may be a think left
for I have composed a poem in a language
never before heard or thought of
I think it is the perfect think
what do you think
I think I should not be left at school during the holidays
thats what I think
Roden take note

Du er udefinerbar
Du giver kun mening, når jeg placerer dig
Et sted mellem mine sansers sammenfald
Gennem kropslig perception

Du er den nerve, der danser på min læbe
En prik på grænselandets ukendte terræn
Hvor ellers kun sorg og glæde bugter sig
Mellem to mundvige

Du er den hvide bue ved roden af min negl
En betydningsnuance lige under overfladen
Så fængende for min opmærksomhed
Indtil du forsvinder

Du er følelsen lige inden mine nys
Et fremmedartet forventningsfænomen
Skønt forårsaget af ubekendt irritament
Så uforligneligt uforløst

Du er varmen fra solstrålen mod min hud
Der omfavner mig og kysser min kind
Et momentant strejf af glæde og lykke
Som stryger flygtigt forbi

Fordi mine arme er grene
svajer jeg i vinden
Når det rusker
ryster jeg
Træ er et smukt materiale
birk er sublimt
Jeg mærker hvordan roden
dræner mit køn for væske
Xylem gør sit job
Giver mig sved på panden
Straks derefter
næsten umærkeligt
springer jeg ud