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I Can Resist This! –

Tenuous grip on sanity –
that scent of man –
tendons on a turned neck –
the gesture of a hand –

Flex of muscles on a leg –
– I can resist this! –
To long – it’s been too long –
– I don’t need this! –

A hand is raked through hair –
a thought, a hope, a wish –
wispy clouds of breath
in winter air; mine, his –

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What I Am

I am a stray cat nobody wants to feed –
I am an echo in the silence you create
with all the noise you make –

I am a shadow in the darkness of the night –
I am a planet knocked off course
and hidden from the light –

I am an epiphyte high on a branch, alone –
I am disguised to look like my surroundings,
so you pass me by, unknown –

I am an eye that follows you around –
I am a presence that you barely can detect,
a movement; subtle, slight

I am a shade dissolving in your light –
I am an echo in the silence you create
with all the noise you make –

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Teacher Totally Disenchanted

The more I know,
the less you seem to know.

I used to think you knew everything.
Now I know that you know a few things.
And fake a good many.

Now I know that I could teach you.
Yet I shouldn’t brag – since after all
you were the one who taught me
the foundations which I took off
and overtook you from –

I could’ve kept respecting you
perhaps indefinitely
if you didn’t so insistently
keep claiming to know more than you know
now that I know you do.

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Reality Check

Liberated consciousness,
self-realization –
not really.
Somehow realizing the “self”
always has consequences
for others –
preventing others
from realizing themselves.

Escape your comfort zone
(to boast about it)
forgetting in your haste
that your comfort zone
does not exist
in a vacuum
but overlaps the comfort zones
of those around you
whom you may not
have consulted
about the escape –

Your dream.
Someone’s nightmare.
What makes you think
your dream
is what’s more real?

Humans are flawed –
more so because they
ignore the real flaws
and invent other –
unimportant –
“flaws” they’d rather improve.

“Move fast and break things.”
Why is it
that I always have the feeling
of trailing behind
the rest of humanity
with a broom –
trying to tidy up
at least an inch-wide path
through the mess
you all leave behind
for future generations
to struggle through
or drown in?

I am Chiron –
I can make you feel better
about yourself
at the cost of myself –

I am Cassandra –
but wise enough to not speak
and only write
since most people
are too lazy to read
and even fewer
intelligent enough
to understand –
whereas if you speak out loud
everybody thinks they understand you
even though the smartest
only scrape the surface
of the words
obscuring meaning –

I am King Midas
(dressed as a woman)
with the exception
that I don’t turn things to gold
but to poetry –
equally impractical
but much less lucrative –

I would much rather be myself
but the rest of humanity
cuts the queue
and butts me out the way
declaring their right
to self-realization –
(it must be a lonely search -)
and I have not the arrogance
of humans
so I stay quiet
and write –

Stay in the heat –
Play the game –
Oh, I’d do it for inspiration!
But only because
your idiosyncrasy
makes for good poetry!

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In the MAKING –

The desire to MAKE –
that is the human curse I carry –
the MAKING of art
in a futile attempt to carry
myself into a future
without me –

My hands want creation –
if my mind wants peace
it has come to the wrong place –
this world is ours
for the MAKING –

For those of us who have
sufficiently little of ourselves
to value art
that’s what we MAKE –

For those who live instead
they MAKE themselves
and others in their image –

And we shall MAKE
a world without us
through our restless creation –
a world in our image
as barren as the average mind
that brought it down –

Meanwhile I’ll MAKE
some poetry and hope
some sense might yet be found –

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I Have Not the Arrogance of Humans

I have not the arrogance
of humans –
mine is not the voice
of presumption –
I walk among them
in silence
and they do not sense
my presence –

I have not the bearing
of them –
not their arrogance,
pretense –
not their wild-eyed fury
at ideas
that scatter in the wind
around the bend –

I have not their beliefs
and dreams –
their hopes and fears
and follies –
I won’t purport to understand
their ways.
I understand enough
not to try –

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Standing There Alone

Standing there alone
who those people are
and what they think.
Milling around me,
but the words do not
make sense.
It’s endless humming
without meaning,
and it tires me out.

From a distance
every word
sounds like a buzz
and people lose
their eyes.
Everybody looks the same
and sounds the same
and move around the same way,
and I laugh
at their concept
of individuality.

I won’t purport to know them
based on having met
or talked with them before –
there is no point,
no purpose
and no plan.

It takes so long
to get to know somebody –
it takes so much work.
You have to see them
in so many situations,
assess their feelings
and thoughts –
and, let’s be honest:
None of you
care for that much work.

So I will not approach you,
just observe
and think.
And write, perhaps,
and maybe,
if the need should strike me,

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It’s Not That I Don’t Care

It’s not that I don’t care
it’s that I do not have the energy
to respond
that which you want to hear.

It’s not that I don’t see
it’s that I see too much
of then and now
and what will fail to be.

It’s not that I don’t hear
it’s that there is no point in saying
since you won’t really hear.

It’s just the way I feel
and nothing you can do or say
will make your words
seem true, or even real.

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Seen From a Distance People Lose Their Eyes

Seen from a distance people lose their eyes –
be that distance in time, place or thought –
and it is much easier to see someone that way
instead of seeing them for who they are.

It takes so terribly much effort to see someone
when they aren’t right beside you,
and preferably look and talk like you
and agree with everything you were to say.

So much easier to let them stay where they are,
well out of sight at a safe distance from you,
and let their eyes dissolve as well as other features
that might make them seem as human as yourself.

Seen from a distance no features can be discerned,
least of all the eyes (the “mirror of the soul”),
that could possibly convince you that they might
be worth getting to know; worth listening to.

And for our convenience in the 21st century
we have technology to make it so much easier
than before to blind oneself to anything and anyone
who doesn’t come in handy for you personally, right here and now.

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Does the cell think of the purpose of its existence as it wriggles its way around between its many brethren? Does it ever consider how small and fragile it is, or how and why it exists? No. It just exists. It moves around because that’s what it does. And that very action in inaction is the foundation of life. Thinking is disastrous on lower levels – it is a privilege of accumulated distance to one’s roots.

Continue reading SPREAD

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Those Humans

You know them, those pesky two-legged creatures who constantly bother you when you try to work and just won’t respect your privacy. When you plan a trip to finally be alone with yourself in nature, they might even suddenly decide to tag along.
It is as if they think themselves the most important thing in the world, and in your life. It is as if any proof to the contrary is invisible to them.

Continue reading Those Humans

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Artistic Identification

A debate has been raging lately about identity in art. Can an artist portray someone from whose ethnic group / gender one doesn’t belong? Is is permissible to even do that? Doesn’t it further stereotypes? Doesn’t it further bias? Isn’t it implicitly sexist or racist to even think one is allowed to do such a thing in the first place?
I’ve had enough of this debate. I propose a whole other distinction. How about we identify as artists first, and everything else second? That way the problem is automatically solved! Or better yet; can’t we just agree that we’re all at least human, flaws and differences aside?
But I guess that’s too simplistic a solution for the vast majority of the human race – which is why they can’t agree on the topic.
I don’t care if a man tries to write a book from a woman’s perspective. If anything, it might teach him something. He might not necessarily get it right – in which case I can laugh it off and pick up another book. No problem. But I also refuse to write from a man’s perspective in a feeble attempt to encourage more men to read me. It doesn’t matter to me if other women do that though – that’s their choice. The main point should be the quality of the book, and the depth and strength of the questions raised by it. Not either the author or the narrators respective genders or races.
I myself prefer writing based on personal experience. But that isn’t to say that there can’t be valid reasons for adopting the perspective of others. To broaden one’s horizon. To attempt understanding. Isn’t it better to at least try, and maybe get it wrong, rather than being too afraid to broach the topic? I think it is.I think art could be a useful tool for promoting understanding – if artists aren’t threatened into only writing about themselves. If one does that, it should reflect an active choice of the artist, and not coercion by society.
I would like to think that we could at some point move past these discussions altogether and focus on the content instead – but the rest of the world never ceases to disappoint me in said regard.

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Du kender mig ikke
og jeg kender ikke verden
men vi foregiver begge
kendskab –
vi ønsker begge at forstå
ting der overgår
vor forstand –

Et glimt af et menneske der taler,
munde bevæger sig
og øjne danser,
hænder glider gennem luften –
aldrig i ro.

Jeg forstår ikke mennesker
med deres korte glæder,
korte sorger,
korte tanker –
men jeg foregiver kendskab
da jeg skal forestille
en af dem.

Et glimt af dig
under glimtende lamper,
hvirvlende rundt i dans
i selskab med
en Strawberry Daiquiri.
Jeg forstår dig ikke –
med din klingende latter,
smilende mund,
usmilende øjne.

Et glimt af mig
set fra oven
med en bog i hånden
og en verden i tankerne
der fjerner al evne
til at fungere lige her og nu…

Jeg forstår ikke mig selv –
at jeg ønsker at forstå?
Hvad med dig?

Et glimt –
dit smil –
div kvidrende stemme –
ingen tanker for i går,
ingen tanker for i morgen;
tanker for et ‘mig’
som ikke er…

nej –

du ønsker nok egentlig ikke
forståelse –
du ønsker nok livet nu og her
og at få det overstået,
og krydset af som fuldført
på din endeløse bucket list
rejser og oplevelser,
fester og sammenkomster,

Et glimt af os begge
da vi var børn –
med fødderne i vand
under en varm, venlig sol
inden vi skulle tilbage
til det sted der kaldtes “hjem” –

erindringer er subjektive –

børn ser så meget for meget
og forstår så meget for lidt –

Jeg kendte dig aldrig rigtigt
og du kendte ikke mig –
ikke for alvor,
kun i glimt.

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Hvidt støv suser over grå asfalt
snart dækket –
hvide fnug fyger,
skjuler horisonten –
jeg går uden at efterlade spor;
jeg kunne forsvinde,
lægge mig under en hvid dyne,
sove –
men verden ville finde mig
før eller siden –

Jeg går uden at efterlade mig spor –
sneen er min ven
der skjuler mig
og bider i mine kinder
for trods alt at minde
om min eksistens –

Når sneen ikke falder
fures den af spor –
det vil jeg ikke se –
ikke se hvordan mennesker
roder i naturen –
ikke deltage,
ikke vide,
ikke findes –
viske spor ud bag mig
ét for ét –

Når det så
bliver varmere –
det hvide tæppe efterlader
et hulmønster
på græsset,
der stille dumper ned
fra træer,
tagskæg –

Jeg er tilbage i livet,
den farlige sportid
er forbi –
nu kan jeg igen gå trygt
uden at se bag over skulderen –
nu kan man forsvinde
i menneske-fygningen –

men lyset –
men stilheden –

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Dørens magi
skræller smilet af mit ansigt
og kaster det op i vinden –
det bliver svært at fange
når jeg skal ud igen.

Dette ene skridt over tærsklen
fører mig fra én verden
til en anden.
Men selv herinde klæber det til mig;
menneskers øjne,
de ting de siger, som jeg ikke forstår –
tavsheden der langsomt kvæler mig.

Men smilet slipper jeg da i det mindste for.

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Old, Torn Lace

Old, torn lace
hanging draped
over a sunkissed face.

We’re old as a species
though the planet thinks us young.

Paint that scales
off house facades –
crackled pavements
worn by decades.

Weathered, wooden fences –
weathered, broken tiles.
Weathered, petrified
concrete – stretching miles.

Stiff, unbending people.
Feet that keep on coming.
Weathered fossils clinging –
wanting to stay young.

Green sprouts are tearing
at concrete coffin-spaces
leaving old, torn lace
meshes in their places.

We’re old as a species
though the planet thinks us young
and sooner than both know
we shall have been and gone.

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Some Thoughts on Solitude

I live alone among
a lot of unknown people.
I live a recluse here
where others move in packs.

I think it must be so
since every path of mind
that brings people together
brings them away from me.

And so I walk among them
observing, unobserved,
their various undertakings
yet never speak a word.

I do not understand them.
They do not understand me.
It seems rather fair then
to simply let them be.

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I exist within a hollow
in this world,
whereto nobody else would follow
even if they could

My poetry exists within a void
in open space
which other people still avoid
in their breathless pace

The world itself is surrounded by
a void of emptiness,
a void which people passing by
do not know exists

And if they knew, they’d pause to read
the words I here have written,
and when they don’t it means they are
severely world-smitten