Curious

A year ago, we were whole.

Now, I'm a piece of a story 

which will never be finished

Sweet, soft happiness

blissful little creature

so fast and so 

suddenly lost.

Last Call for the Lifeboats

I can tell by the gentle slope of the hallway

as I wade on through leftover luggage

and by the way the fluorescent lights

unignite

I'm just a little fool

I've got no head for physics or for maths

I've lived my life for pretty lights

glasses of effervescent wines

minor crimes

of the heart.

It's not my area of expertise

but this near to the closing of it all

even I can tell our ship is sinking.

Go to, unblinking. Hike up your skirts of cobwebbed silks 

and carry on. Here, the stairs.

The rushing of the ocean

cannot overtake

the memories of dancing

just a little while ago.

I know where the exits are

I can even swim. I won't. 

This is the closing of the ball.

The last call.

There's no one waiting on the shore.

The lifeboats have already left.

Yet, I've got an itch

a pinprick of a thought

that if I get to the deck up top

the stars will still be smiling high above.

The Forbidden History

A Break in the Doing of the Art. Felicia Brown.

Sometimes, when I catch a glimpse of myself really quickly in passing,
in a toy-shop window or the surface of a shiny car,
I look pretty normal
until I realize what I am looking at. 

I killed myself as creator

I taught myself to love loneliness because I had no choice, and it gave me talent, drive, and ambition. With time I lost the need to love it, and I forgot to practice. When I find myself alone, I am now afraid. I know not what to do or where to put my hands.

I am too much and I feel every sharp edge with a keen pain bordering on pleasure, and I drag myself along walls to make sure I sense every change in texture. I collect moments. I trace lines in bodies I care for to remember how they are built and claim people's bones for myself. I crawl close to you and stare intently with my mole-girl eyes at your chest to imprint on my mind the pattern of your body hair and the little cluster of stars just under and a little to the left of your heart. Or the scars on your knees. Or the deep pin-hole wells of emptiness scattered in your irises.
I get anxiety attacks that can only be cured by:
remembering I am my own person and can take back my life and "promise no one has to die"
your calm voice telling me that everything will be okay
getting the fuck away from everything.

I am too much and I hate it. I will buy a new suitcase (Expensive. Red leather, vintage) and pack down all my feelings and desires and expectations and hopes along with the ripped-off keys of my keyboard and get the fuck out of here. The blank page'll take the too much until just I am.

Mødet

Tiden er knudret og snoet. Den er gennemskudt af tråde der forbinder øjeblikke, knuder, med hinanden. Fra ét punkt til det næste er ikke langt, men jo flere gentagelser, jo længere bliver rejsen, jo sværere gennemskuelig stien tilbage. Der er momenter jeg aldrig kommer til at gense selvom jeg måske forsøgte at gemme dem, og der er steder der pludselig træder klart frem når en duft mærkes igen, en stemning, en følelse.

Jeg har fundet mig selv som 17-årig igen. Det er okay. Det var dengang da jeg sad på min seng og hørte Evanescence og Metallica og læste LaVeyansk satanisme og Homer, satte ild til min vindueskarm ved et uheld og til min bogreol med vilje, rodede rundt i Wicca, næsten lærte mig selv lucid dreaming, men var nødt til at glemme mine drømme igen efter min mor begyndte at slå mig ihjel i dem alle sammen, gik i sort og var helt alene om det, scorede amoralske punkere til undergrundsfester og havde lammet, blindt samleje i mudder under fremmede menneskers gyngestativ. Lambrusco, msn, massiv ensomhed, en følelse af at være ved at dø hele tiden. Det var mens min familie bestod af katte, jeg malede al min lidelse med akrylmaling på væggene i huset, og jeg var ulykkeligt forelsket, også i mig selv.

Jeg tror ikke jeg ville skuffe mig selv, hvis jeg kunne se frem i tiden, ind i 16, fra 6. Det er en trøst. Vi kan være i det sammen nu.

I dreamt that you were next to me, and it made perfect sense battling embraced for kisses. You got up to get something, and in the meantime I woke up to realize you won't be coming back.

À quoi bon?

[vittig, men tragikomisk overskrift]

[Indlæg,der essentielt set er et udtryk for forfatterens dybe bitterhed over den overaltomkringliggende julestemning og den udbredte fejring af gennemsnitslig funktionel dansk traditionalistisk familiehygge der har overtaget særligt de sociale medier, men som er udtrykt så tilstrækkeligt kunstnerisk og humoristisk, at det frem for at virke selvmedlidende og patetisk, kommer til at fremstå som en intelligent, forfriskende og skarp realistisk kommentar på livet (frem for alt ikke ynkværdig) -  aromatisk på samme måde som oliventapenade, en ærlig veninde i bagklogskabens lys eller Bernard Black]

En folkesygdom

Ned

Det er ensomt at gå i hundene alene. Træk en ven med.

Døden findes i drømme

Vi har alle sammen sår af den slags

som skaber et intet omkring os

og gør os én(e).

Jeg har i hvert fald.

Traume/trauma (gr.:τράυμα) => sår/skade. Traum (t.) => drøm. Lakune (lat.: lacuna) => tomrum/mangel.

To this Day

Smukt spoken word digt af Shane Koyczan som en del af en antimobningskampagne, her givet billeder af en lang række animatorer. Se den lige.

I would give you the moon