søndag den 31. december 2017

They've gone up into the mountains and built a city that stretches into the clouds. Any stranger who begins the climb will be shot before they get very far. But then we get the news that their leader has been killed. It's very cold, and they must be starving, the old people and the children huddled up in blankets up there. We invade. We bring the future. The future is for the women and those that do good. So we kill them when we find them, men of the past and old women so weathered by hardships they've forgotten how to be soft. Only those who can argue well that they have a place in the kingdoms of tomorrow are left alive and allowed to leave over the ocean.

We judge them worthy by their arguments, and let the Northern Wind live, as he declares himself shaped by Modernity, a figure of speech as much as an old force of nature. It would turn out to be a mistake, of course.

lørdag den 30. december 2017

mandag den 11. december 2017

I'll kidnap you

and take you to the amnesia island

where we can live happily ever after

in ignorance.

lørdag den 9. december 2017

The week that went

two bouquets of white flowers: roses and cloves.
lounging about in a fox fur and nothing else.
radical feminist manifesto performed by theatre students wearing hazmat suits.
work-wine balance, understanding photographs (momentality reappears), a book about flesh.
revolutionary contortions of impressive technical quality but lacking thematic originality. surely we can think of some new, non-french, non-communist ways to destroy society?
the quality of liquefied light.
memes about death or the death-drive or just the general human condition of persistent anxiety.
waking up several times between four and five in the morning having dreamt, for instance, that you were grieving deeply over a loved one and i couldn't do anything to comfort you.
sitting in bright lights saying things about fiction and the difference between women and lamps.
heavily objectifying friends.
smoking about nine cigarettes.
sitting in the shower concentrating deeply on not existing in the present.

my hands are always cold

lørdag den 25. november 2017

tired little wanderings in weathered memory palace gardens
can I keep the keys?
suddenly finding yourself somewhere very calm, and the way the air turns crisp when it's cold like certain apples
waking up many times in the night to readjust your understanding of reality

Recently I woke up and had forgotten who you were. Everything was new, it was the early still darkness of the coming day, and I spent several moments not knowing. I didn't know anything else either, nor myself, but it was your presence that pricked. It's a strange feeling, being so clean. Love came to me first. Not because that was the most authentic part of our relation. Perhaps it was simply something I'd dreamt? It was lucky, anyway.

I have a cold, and I'm summoning smells: candle light, melting butter, your skin post-sex.

From Friday I'll be working with frozen moments. Of course, in reality mornings like that one - the fourth time I open my eyes during five hours of uneasy rest to shift the connections of our skin - the taste of happiness in a dream of doing something which usually frightens - the creaking of wood as I walk over the floors of an emptying hall to say goodbye to people I love not for no reason - are more complex that what can be captured visually. But it's remembering that's the trick. Building rooms to visit later, with the tapestry of precious details. 

tirsdag den 14. november 2017

...and now the glasses are empty, the phone no longer rings

Photo taken by Bret Lehne at Inside Hamlet insidehamlet.com

søndag den 5. november 2017

There's a new you in town.

torsdag den 2. november 2017

mandag den 30. oktober 2017

onsdag den 4. oktober 2017

efter kl. 02 , før kl. 04

rød sportsvogn, kan ikke køre bil. På førersædet sidder lige nu en hysterisk kvinde som har lagt et halvt blodigt hoved på vores dørtrin fordi hun tror vi er mordere. Det er vi selvfølgelig også. fem kvinder på flugt fra de ældgamle jægere. Jeg så sjælesugeren ud i hans blå øjne og sang og bad om vores gaver, som vi fik, så vi kunne undslippe. Det var vores fejl at køre langs Miami Beach som om vi var på ferie og holde ind i dette alligatorbefæstede sommerhus, hvor vi efterlod beboerne som blodige lig på stuegulvet mens vi solbadede.

Jagtede af de umenneskelige, de urørlige skygger, men vi vinder tid fordi de ikke er vant til at være i live eller vant til verden og de bliver distraherede og ... ... som tiden går. Det er derfor vi havde en chance selvom de var nået ind og helt tæt på - og så pga turisterne. En af os måtte stå og stege kød og tale om, forsøge at distrahere fra lugten af menneske og fra lårbensknoglerne i bøfferne. Det gik fint indtil hende her mistede fatningen og inviterede militæret. Helt fint. Det er også min skyld fordi jeg lod mig genkende. Jeg er for selvoptaget. 

torsdag den 28. september 2017

You weren’t always frail, but pneumonia took your strength from you. As children you and Iris would run wild, chasing each other through the fields of Marcella, stealing apples, shooting tins with pistols, your shrill children’s laughter blending together. You used to think that maybe you would be the one to marry her when you grew up. Such foolish notions. You probably could have. But not in this reality.

Having spent most of your youth studying the arts of poetry, fencing, diplomacy, and dancing, you are on the surface the perfect image of a young noble. It was a charming, but boring existence with the servants of God, and dreams of escaping and experiencing the raw realities of life outside were never far away.
Unsure if your friends, fans, and lovers care about the real you or if they care about the person you are pretending to be, you are terrified of letting go and being less than perfect. Eternally the damsel in distress, you fear the day when no one will come to your rescue.

- texts for Inside Hamlet 2017

Arthur Hughes Ophelia (first version)

søndag den 17. september 2017


Made by the entirely amazing Jer Carolina: www.facebook.com/JerCarolinaArt 

søndag den 3. september 2017

Læs min artikel "Pan i Londons gader: Hvorfor genopstod en græsk naturgud for en kort periode i Storbritannien? i K&K her.

"Pan, som en gud, der allerede i antikken personificerede primitivitet, forener som karakter i The Great God Pan det hedensk-hedonistiske, og selvmordernes møde med ham bliver også et møde med degenerativt forfald, mærkbart erotisk og dødeligt."  

lørdag den 26. august 2017

Inside Hamlet

One thing might stop you in your terrible trajectory. You’ve seen a youth across the throne room. You’ve noticed their innocent smile, their beautiful hair. Is this? Could this be? The very image of Emily, your long lost love from ages ago has stood before you. Is it her ghost or could she have found a way to cheat time? Is it a child, a grandchild of the fallen woman who is of yet undestroyed and could be yours the way their ancestor never was?

I'm currently writing characters for the Shakespeare inspired interactive theatre event Inside Hamlet, which will take place at Elsinore castle October 27-29 and again November 3-5 2017. 

The game is set in the 1930s, in a world where the revolutions never happened. But now they are coming, and the Reds are moving in. The last of Danish Nobility have barricaded themselves at Elsinore, hoping to wait out the storm, but destined to die.

You should get tickets. 

lørdag den 29. juli 2017

The Clown

The Clown turned his powdered face to the mirror,
   "If to be fair is to be beautiful," he said, "who can compare with me in my white mask?"
   "Who can compare with him in his white mask?" I asked Death beside me.
   "Who can compare with me?" said Death, "for I am paler still."
   "You are very beautiful," sighed the Clown, turning his powdered face from the mirror.
- Robert W. Chambers, The King in Yellow.

The King in Yellow is a collection of short stories, first published in 1895. The title references a lost play, which is said to be of such a poisonous nature, that anyone who reads it, or meets its protagonist must die. The King wears a crown of cheap deceit, a cape of yellow, the miscoloured skin of jaundice, or the flesh of the already dead. He comes with insanity and despair, and he kills off any and all signs of love. To meet the king in yellow is to get the joke, and meet the horror of pointless flesh that is already always rotting on our bones.
Some say he is an angel and the book is the lost, and final part of the old biblical scrolls.

original front page illustration by Chambers

onsdag den 21. juni 2017

"Pan, traditionally, presides over dreams, especially erotic dream and the nightmare. A decline in dreaming will be further evidence of Pan's demise."
- T. Robbins, Jitterbug Perfume 

søndag den 18. juni 2017

Det sker lidt andre steder lige nu...

Læs min artikel "Morality and Taxidermy in Art: Between the Monstrous and the Beautiful" på Culturised her.

"If a sculpture like Paradise is the product of wrongdoing, is it wrong itself? And does it even matter if it is? It isn’t necessarily the case that art should be morally good – returning to earlier historical times, it often wasn’t made for reasons we today would define as especially selfless or righteous – but for art to sell, it certainly seems it must at least look like it is."

torsdag den 4. maj 2017


This is a new type of being in love. In my first months of discovering you, you became a flickering light, an increasing compulsion to stray from the lines, a craving for ice cream with honeyed almonds. You were building curiosity, excitement, and the joy of a secret yet to be revealed. I fell into you a bit like I imagine one falls into psychosis; without realizing it at first, and then discovering and having to somehow deal with the complete reorganisation of reality. Before, I never knew that there were sharks living behind bathroom mirrors, but now that I had seen them, there really was no denying them. With you in it, the world was made anew as it had always been. There was fear and struggle, but ultimately it was never a question - of course I had to love you.

This time it's different. This is the second stage of insanity. This is where I start to forget which parts of the mess of glass and wing-dust and gentle electric currents are you and which are me. It isn't really important to me either, for it isn't about falling anymore. I accept now that the sharks are probably just a result of brain signals gone haywire for biological reasons, the reproduction of the species, etc, but just as an adult who has come to realise that God is mostly made in man's image and still chooses to believe, I don't care about that. I like those sharks. I like you. From a stage of becoming we have moved into being, and it's just as exciting, just as rich. This is about rising.

torsdag den 27. april 2017

"'I have been loved,' she said, 'by something strange, and it has forgotten me.'" 
"the night has been going on for a long time."
 - Djuna Barnes, Nightwood (1936)
Soey Milk: "Earthlings." Oil and twigs on canvas, 2015.

Recently been dreaming of another love, eyes meeting across a room, black, short curls, and a dance. "I can't lead," but she doesn't mind. Blaming Doctor Who and the girl with a star in her eye. Be careful with your culture consumption. 

tirsdag den 25. april 2017


Jeg er lige blevet færdig med at gennemspille Orwell, hvor jeg var ret ensidigt på den totalitære stats side, også til sidst. I virkeligheden har jeg altid været imod demokratiet, men det er en sådan lidt provokerende ting at sige. Jeg er for teknokrati. Det kan man vist efterhånden godt forstå. Det er et godt spil, hvis man er til tekstbaserede oplevelser. Det får måske 4 stjerner ud af 6 for at være provokerende og pænt.

Mit liv ellers er ret kedeligt optaget af private gøremål og en masse sygdom. Følelsesarbejde. Planlægning af hvordan og med hvem jeg vil leve. 5-års planer og sådan. Det gider jeg ikke skrive om, privatlivet er generelt rigeligt overeksponeret og begynder at være uinteressant. Måske vi ser en ny bølge snart? Postindividualiseringssamfund? Jeg mener stadig, at følelsernes æstetik er magtfuld, men der skal ligesom være tale om sublimering af en art. Det almenmenneskelige må fylde mere end det specifikke, hvis vi skal gøre os håb om at knytte bånd til eftertiden.

Savner akademia. 

mandag den 3. april 2017


Dagens menneskeideal er det gennemskinnelige, autentiske, ærlige og ikke mindst politisk korrekte subjekt, der intet har at skjule og intet skjuler. Jeg står frem med mine holdninger og for samfundets bedste kalder jeg også dig ud på dine [the act of calling out], uagtet om du bekender dig til dem eller ej. For at være på den sikre side bedriver jeg dybdeborende diskursanalyse med fokus på værst mulige fortolkning hver gang du taler. Vi vil leve i gyldne tider. Vi vil frihed og ikke-objektiv skønhed. Vi vil stå frem som individer af en kommende æra og som allierede i en kamp mod systemer, det være sig kapitalisme eller køn. Vi er kunstnere, vi eksperimenterer med os selv og skaber ny systemer. Vi er venstreorienterede. Vi er kultur-i-udvikling. Vi er morgendagen. Vi er stolte. Vi er rene. Vi er forenede og samtidig unikke.

Man må gerne slå nazister. På samme vis kalder jeg dig frem i lyset og påpeger dine fejl for fællesskabet på Facebook. Du er ikke (længere) en af de allierede. Din opførsel er problematisk. Jeg er ikke interesseret i hvad du egentlig mener, men det kunne læses negativt. Din statusopdatering er forkert ift. konsensus, den afslører racistiske, sexistiske undertoner. Jeg bliver måske selv lidt praktiserende fascist når jeg erklærer mig tilhænger af overvågningssamfundet og melder dine immanent manifesterede endnu-ej-begåede fejl til mine uofficielle overordnede i utopiens tjeneste, men det er ikke mig, vi taler om. 

Det er heller ikke bare det, du gør, der er forkert. Det er den, du er. Din maskulinitet er giftig [toxic], men du kan ikke undslippe den så længe du stadig performer dit køn (interessant nok, gælder det også for femininiteten, der er blevet ødelagt af the male gaze). Den er en del af dit kød indtil den dag, du deler den fra dig selv og udpeger den som ulækker/abjekt. De hellige identiteter er kønløse eller udfordrer køn. Offeret er idealet for i dag: Hvorfor forbrydelsen ikke længere er forbundet statslig lov, men social.

I næste sekund, jeg har nu sænket min pegefinger fra dens antiobjektificering af dig, løfter jeg hånden igen for at pege på min transseksuelle veninde, der måske egentlig helst bare vil være min veninde, men det er ikke hendes valg, så jeg kan erklære min renhed gennem hendes transcendente kød. Vi er ét, hun og jeg, for jeg fejrer hendes kampe ved at kalde dem frem, hvorved jeg får del i hendes glorie. Jeg mærker ikke vægten af nogen af hendes udfordringer, men ved at bore i hendes stigmata, får jeg hendes blod på min hud og bliver selv hellig. Du siger, at hun er et menneske som alle andre, men du bør tie, for du er blændet af dine privilegier.

Erklær: "jeg har erkendt mine fejl og er nu en anden" og du kan blive som os. Erklær det ikke kun med ord, men med gerninger. Operer på din identitet, skær skidtet ud og erstat det med skam. Dit jeg er nu ét med kollektivet. Beskær også i dine relationer. Morgendagen er nær. Lyset tilhører os alle. Forstå: vi er forenede af kontrasten til de Andre, der endnu er udøvende undertrykkere.

Jeg påpeger: der findes ikke rene mennesker. Den, der begår destruktive gerninger, ser dem ofte selv som undtagelser eller frihedskamp frem for terrorisme. Der findes ikke den, der ikke har fejlet. Du bliver ikke et renere menneske af, at trække en anden frem i lyset og påpege hans fejl. Det ser blot sådan ud.

Det her er, når sammenlignet, et mindre interessant aspekt af venstrefløjens kamp for lighed, der hvert øjeblik er uvigtigt i forhold til overgreb og vold. Ikke desto mindre kan det beskrives som en bevægelse, der støt tager til: venstrefløjens angreb på sig selv, slangen, der fortærer sin egen hale, feministen, der kalder sin søster en slut og sin bror en født forbryder. 

torsdag den 30. marts 2017

Super over it.

onsdag den 22. marts 2017

Each city decided on their own how they would deal with the flood. When we came to this area, it looked too good to be true. We could even hear children laughing. It turns out, they made a deal. They gave up half of everything they had to save the rest. When you look around you just right, you can see the movements in the surface of the yellow water covering rugs and livingrooms. You can see their spouses and neighbours still lying there, rotting just under the surface.

søndag den 12. marts 2017

It's another the end of life as we know it. Panorama from above, you see the city's many skyskrapers still lighted up by people working hard, but there are fewer of them. They are the lucky, the ones with connections who manage to make a profit on the many deaths of their neighbours. Most of the offices are empty, windows smashed in by wind or broken from inside by attempts to escape. Most of them are dark.

The cult of the angels is led by my father who has now become a holy man. He can save twice as many people from above as any effort on the ground. The downside to the wings is a strong desire for human meat, but he denies himself and all his followers out of purity. The sense of good is strong in him. He doesn't know that his generals share the bounty of living bodies, their victims-recently-saved, with all of his crew after nightfall. He doesn't see.

All the animals are gone. They went wild with fury and ate each other regardless of former diets. Horses feasting on dogs felt to us like a manifested sign of hell on earth in those first days. Now the world belongs truly to the humans in the final battle for the survival of the fittest. Darwinism taken to its ultimate conclusion. The earth has turned against us. Massive landmasses move across the globe without warning. Lavastreams form and chase their running prey mindlessly. Storms pull out trees, that are hundreds of years old, by their roots.

Yet. You and I are still here.

onsdag den 8. marts 2017

In a landscape that mostly consists of dry, yellowing grass fields and a few gatherings of trees, stories come to life and sometimes hunt you.
I hide in the water beneath the lilies and try not to breathe, shielding myself in remnants from Ende and Lindgren: the innocent poetries of childhood. Soon they will come running over the bridge, so i try not to exist. I try mimicking just another fiction.

søndag den 5. marts 2017

Solen brænder dødeligt om dagen. Ingen går udenfor i klart vejr. Gammelt, slidt hus, høje lofter, mor og søn. Han rebel, hun melankoliker, sidder fast i gamle dage, krammer hans pude mens han er væk. Du går i koma og brænder stille, hvis du bliver fanget udenfor. Tynde stråler af lys trænger ind gennem de høje ruder og signalerer om det er farligt, at bevæge sig. Strålingen er kun effektiv nogle gange.
Man samles om historier fra gamle dage. Støvet ligger tykt. Rige mænd kan hjælpe. Det handler om at komme ind i byen, hvor der er sikkert. Udenfor lever alle på lånt tid. Det startede pludselig en dag. Nogle er immune?

fredag den 3. marts 2017

We are living the past in a cottage full of things. Strange paraphernalia. Pictures from Hollywood and forgotten silent movie stars, cabaret singers, dolls. We are living in the middle of the woods, we don't know for how long. We affect the world around us, when we make mistakes, but the we suspect, the real world has no effect on us. Apart from when the two collide. Just now a car crashed, down, down the hill it rolled, like the driver was aiming for the two women. I pulled them away just in time. Between the trees four startled, incomprehensing hikers stare at us.

onsdag den 1. marts 2017

Let us help you to help yourself

- Hello, excuse me, is this the number of the government sanctioned self-hospillization clinic for women with nervous tendencies?

- Yes, I'll hold.

- No, I did not recently start experiencing these cramping sensations of utter powerlessness in which my entire system seems to shut down as a reaction to the discepancy between society's expectations of me and what I feel I am able to live up to. They've lasted for, I don't know, weeks? Years?

- Really? Okay. Yes. Yes, I'll wait. I've been waiting all my life.

phone queue music plays in the background.

- Hi, yes. I don't know. Should I think of my mother's last miserable moments before she died a lot? It's all been a bit fuzzy.

- I mean, more than normally?

- I know that it's not unusual, it's just... I don't know why I get up in the morning.

- Yes. Yes, I'll hold.

- Hello. Yes, I'm sorry. I'm feeling a deep sense of existential dread, am I speaking to the right person? I'm worried I won't be able to continue

- Yes, Sir.

- I'm sorry. I didn't think of that/them/the future of society at large. I will.

The Global American Dream is in YOUR fragile hands. Pick up the phone today if you are beginning to feel yourself fall apart, and we will have someone tell you it Will Be All Right If You Just Get a Grip and Get On With It Because Who Will if You Do Not? TRUST in Us when you cannot trust in yourself. The number for the patriarchal help-line can be found on the back of statistically every third milk carton you buy, and if you call us from home rather than, say, from your lover's car phone or from a diner next to the highway leading out of town, you get the first five minutes for free.

torsdag den 16. februar 2017

Ways of Dealing With the Meaningless Void of Existence

  • adopt a fun, cheerful tone and utilise it enthusiastically in everything you write and say, especially those things that have to do with consumerism, business and your personal brand. Do not let this tone falter, even at times when it seems to become about as effortless to keep up as the pretence that you actually enjoy visiting your relatives over the holidays. Stick to your strained positivity through all that may befall you, and in time you will come to accept and enjoy your own perfection just as those around you have been forced to do.
  • buy many, many things. There is always a sale somewhere, though nothing truly meaningful ever went on sale. The real important things in life are couture.
  • don't do tomorrow what you can forget today through meaningless sex and power shopping.
  • never leave the house without a thick protective layer of almost believable lies about who you are and why you do the things you do, such as "I drink 11 cups of coffee every day because I am an effective and motivated person who wishes to do my utmost best for this company (not because I find that I am unable to feel passionate or energized about anything I do no matter how much or what I drink)." Be careful not to come off as too believable as no one trusts a truly honest person.
  • to sell anything to anyone you have to be able to first sell it to yourself.
  • the best lies aren't lies at all, anymore, therefore, avoid questioning yourself and your beliefs at all costs.

søndag den 15. januar 2017

what's not to love?

På pladen Dead City Radio fra 1990, i sangen “Apocalypse”, fortæller Burroughs at Pan videre i New Yorks undergrund som en postapokalyptisk kraft, som undergrundens graffiti og ”den pludselige erkendelse af at alt er i live og betydningsfuldt” der rammer når hverdagens gengangerlignende tilstand afbrydes af en oprørets, uheldets, ungdommens konfrontation med døden.

fundet her.

torsdag den 12. januar 2017

Performance anxiety

overvejer om jeg er kreativt impotent.

(det er jeg ikke)

skriver parenteser til jobmarkedet, fordi jeg er arbejdssøgende og min blog ikke er særligt svær at finde og måske tror de, jeg mener alt det, jeg skriver om mig selv her?

("jeg" er en konstruktion, et eksperiment i beskrivelse og ikke repræsentativt for min troværdighed som formidler)

det har hele tiden været min plan at blive det næste store hit inden for bitre, forfejlede kunstnere. I Danmark har vi en klike, der samlet kaldes de unge danske forfattere. Denne prominente overklassifikation af kulturel kapital mangler mere lidelsesfuldt modspil. Der er for megen beundring blandet med misforståelse. Vi skal have fat i de forfejlede. Det kunne være mig. Jeg kan godt være bitter, men præcis, på vegne af hele den næste generation af intelligentsiaen. Jeg kan godt dyrke en personlighed af tab og modstand og mit eget personlige brand af noget, der supplerer fattigdom, prostitution, stofmisbrug, homoseksualitet, Gellerupghettolife og gøre det til noget skyggefuldt og overakademisk i rollen som kritiker-ej-kunstner. Jeg arbejder på sagen. Jeg er a work in progress (aldrig et værk).