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jeg vil bare gerne bade i saltvand
med dig
spise blomster fra din bedstemors have og
lade planter gro ud af min hovedbund
jeg vil bare gerne drukne i dine vinrøde øjne,
jeg vil spille klaver for dig til morgensolen
vågner og drikke kaffe med dig lige før,
vi skal sove
jeg vil spise croissanter i Paris, skrive digte i Venedig,
male portrætter i Dubai og danse i Florida
med dig
- digte om det, der aldrig skete
ARealMansMan Jul 2014
vælg at passe ind
vælg at slukke gløden
og tænde for fjernsynet

vælg et trygt miljø
med pænt friserede veje
med anlagte børn
der både kan bukke og neje

vælg labrador til konen
og fjerdreaflukkede omgivelser
fadøl med drengene
og en kattelem til at snige igennem
når det hele blev FOR trykt

vælg at fylde stilheden og stemme hende videre
som et metaforisk "tak"
for at gøre fredagen mere
meningsfuld, og for at have
noget at længes efter

vælg at græde til begravelser
vælg at mumle sympatisk med
stå og stirre på kisten
og undre dig over
"hvor blød den mon er?"

vælg fredagshygge, fælleskonto, dansetimer, rugbrødsmadder på jobbet, smurt af skilsmissehungrende kløer, vælg nabokonen og hendes ynge (og mere livlige) køkkenhave

vælg bagdøren, vælg fordøren, vælg køkkenbordet, sofaen, kontoret, chaiseloungen, solsengen, trampolinen, barnesengen - både af hendes og af dit

vælg at skændes til fodboldturningen
vælg "pastasalat",
"nej frikadeller",
"nej pastasalat"
til fællesspisningen på skolen

vælg det perfekte liv, og vælg de diskursnæssige resultat af dine GRUSOMME handlinger.
vælg at bortforklare det hele
og fortæl hende
hvordan alkohol flyder igennem
familien, som gondolen fra bryllupsrejsen til venedig

vælg at tage hjem tidligt
vælg at betvivle din funktion og eksistens igennem
den stille
9 timers lange køretur
"hjem"

vælg de svedige håndflader ved alteret
at betvivle vægtskålenes indhold
føl det blide og lette pres
fra de stirrende øjne
det overdøvende orgel
mens lugten af trygge rammer og boliglån
får dig til at gylpe et surt "ja"

vælg halvdelen af sofaen, det ene barn,
singelfyrslivet i en 33m2 kælderlejlighed
vælg at drukne tårene i endeløs *******
og nyd alle kampene på fjernsynet
vælg at bombadere telefonsvaren
vælg at smadre spejlet
vælg at kæmpe for det søde forstadsliv
ja jeg har set trainspotting
- nej jeg har ikke oplevet det der
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
/                                                             so...
   the flag of the vatican...
                     resembles what i **** out?

   white ****... for watering
entering and leaving me,
without any liver dynamics -
water to water,
  and come the flowered
earth -
    no impurities intact?

but what of the, ammonia-
filled antithesis
of the waterfall bound to
the body?
    
     yellow ****,
the watered down amber?
  that has impurities
attached to it,
    cleansing compounds
of the sort of stink:
that a dog's breath
might invite to
be in a synonym decipher...

the popes at avignon
launched the teutonic order's
crusade of norhtern europe -
or what became of the prussians...

      some called them
the anti-pope clad -
    others? used a "brighter"
metaphor of calling them
        die schwarzpäpste...

so, cardinal venedig...
   will the rat city ever reach
the globalist concerns for
        uunartoq qeqertaq:
                           if any...

the flag... of the vatican...
why burn it?
         no need - tell them:
there are two colours of *****...
the clarity ****
      of no attached impurites
of a translating liver -
  and then the yell'ah **** of
the liver being involved...

yet... the popes of avignon
were the ones to lauch the northern
crusades...

and i'm supposed...
to do what? join the "modern" narratives?
i have heard too much *******
about the crusaders in the holy land,
to hear them embark on
recounting a pristine history
in: that other place in the world
where crusades took place,
but muslims, let alone christians,
talk about as much,
  as a gnat's breath of excuses
to make: forwarding justifications
for isolationism...

history is but a cipher of
      what becomes scientific facts -
read to the "illiterate":
or rather, those,
without chandelier lifestyles -
who, currently in england -
are homeless, yet work -
because:
      only down syndrome artefacts
are free, from the stigma,
of keeping a commandment
of: also being able to put together
a bench for the garden with their
parents...

    suddenly... i'm down syndrome?!
but i guess, if you want to plague
your parents with adding to
living under a strangers' rent premise?
to be! among y'er peers!

                                       they threw me
into the ****** base for some time -
apparently i must have lost more
than 50 IQ points to end up writing
something like this -
notably: my owd fwend -
       like my neighbours -
who's newborn?
       can't move his legs -
doesn't run around the house -
doesn't run into the garden -
has a right limb use
in smashing a wooden spoon
against his diaper style food station -
cries and begs...
      somehow sleeps during the night,
yet his "english" father doesn't
understand private property rights,
or being free, for someone neighbouring
him, to smoke outside his bedroom window...
because... the smoker?
   is shooting **** bombs of smoke
into his infant's window...

  shared air is... apparently a private
property right...
        it's a big deal:
when my neighbour dictates what i can,
and can't own?
  that's when i smash his private
property, and laugh, while doing it...

he has bigger concerns,
somehow coceiving a child aged 50+
with a bride in her late forties...

  the child can't move his legs!
he's sitting like a half-baked ******!
and i'm to blame?!
how much of a mea culpa am i a culprit
to, make genuine answers of,
when other people make mistakes,
or delayed choices?!

and you know what happens
to those ultra-retards when their parents
die?
   i've seen it...
  cattle are treated better when herded
into milk-bank slots...

            mit nacktaugen:
             the way you can only treat
a complete loss of patience -
     in a sanity of a social nurse -
who can't compensate
a formed individual with cancer
to -IQ points "individual"...
                  after a while it's not surprise
that certain people
take to asking for sympathy with
a cain...
                  at least you can
have a "paranoid schizophrenic"
analysis of a sunday newspaper with
such people...
       but with someone who
has been given an existence
by "god's grace":
    but no concept of differentiating
a consonant, from a set of poorly
expressed vowels?
            grace my ***...
                       god laughs like retards
"talk".

— The End —