Proto digte – side 1-4 notesbog 8 – Pink plast fabrik

Der hvorfra det kom
den vinkel
fra hvilken
det vedrørende
er belagt med
alletiders mellemrum
disede morgendage
vægelsind og
lunken kaffe.

Pludselig modernitet
med transversal rytme
brager igennem
blandt flygtige
unge mennesker
i kosmiske gummisko
locked-in illumineret
endless scrolls
med bøjet nakke
integreret apatisk erosion
opslugt verdens-alt
gentaget digitalt loop
slidt overflade
støv kaos og
blah blah blah.

Det vælter rundt.

Alt er blot med
anyway igen
anyway igen
anyway igen
anyway igen
anyway igen
anyway igen
anyway igen.

Gennembruddet uanstændigt
i vejen
der navigeres i diffus emotion
med labyrintisk forbistring
ikke det du siger
ikke engang en sang
eller en handling
alt det usagte uafgjort men
i vejen
kryptisk vildledelse
i vejen
i vejen
tag min hånd
men kun den
i vejen
i vejen
i vejen.



Det tæller
det digitaliserede liv
nul eller netop!
Vis mig kortet
over territoriet
der hvor din gestalt
er trianguleret
opmålt med sekstant
som det konkrete
der vises
reelt i shows
det følte
denne porno
dit messingkompas til hvalfangst
emo-strip nord nord vest
magnetisk abstraktion
med hvad
mod hvad
hvorfor og
So what
udenfor interesse
de glemte ord
samlet op af poeter
genbrugt sprog
romantiske floskler
reaktualiseret som
pink plast
n’importe qoui
ligger i en bunke
og flyder.

Og din kærlighed er i vejen
alt dette den vil
og skal til
og fordi
og vil forstå
og blive forstået
være i fokus
være til
Og vil ikke glemmes
vil ikke lægges til side
eller lades bag
i støvet
blandt historien
om det hele.
Blankslidt af rastløs murren
hænger det ved
opflammes igen og igen
med håret strittende i alle retninger
gamle håndtasker
der engang var smarte
fabulerende hænder gestikulerende
det er ikke normalt
det er ikke normalt
det er ikke normalt
forladt med uafsluttet nag
det er ikke normalt
intet sted at anbringe
kan ikke slippe
c’est pas normal
c’est pas normal
et helt lands ånd
c’est pas normal
vrider hænderne til knoglerne de splintres
det der engang var
vender tilbage til
den dag de
somre det
år den
der nu er

Kom nu!
For Gods sake?!

Got banned on Instagram for indecent hand over keyboard photo

Reader discretion advised: this post contains sarcasm.

So Instagram banned my account this morning due to this obviously (?) indecent hand over keyboard photo.

Indecent male hand hovering over keyboard insinuating outrageous musical activity

I had no idea the mere suggestion of me having a keyboard again was so shocking.

See, what happened – I was very touched about having finally acquired a keyboard after living without any piano or keys since 2018!

Too late did I realize that a male hand hovering over a sensible music instrument could be too much to handle for the Instagram community, or that, maybe, the fantasy of me again being able to inflict emotional havoc with my terrible music was so bad that it had to be stopped by all means?

I obviously disagreed with the decision. However in order to communicate my confusion Instagram give you no other option than to take a selfie and upload it to document that you are still you – blindly trusting that they wont viciously leak such unshaved early morning atrocity to dark and sinister purposes later,

Of course I wont comply with such dubious procedures!

And as the requirement for the selfie was to show my hands I quite naturally send them my “hands hovering over keyboard” thing instead (They did not go so far as to say “stick em up!”, but still, show your hands, take a picture of yourself… really, seriously?)

Now as I only very reluctantly have returned to social media recently I, sort of with a sigh of relief, have decided to use this occasion to stop having an Instagram account altogether,

I have a blog here, and even (still) another facebook account; besides I never really figured out what to do with Instagram that I couldn’t already do here.

So if you figure out to look here wondering why I have stopped following you on Instagram then you got your answer, it wasn’t about us!

Re: Nah, this sucks…

A fragment in English.

I hesitate to write poetic texts in English as I am not an English speaking native. This fragment ended up in an un-numbered notebook due to a conversation some time ago with a friend from Brooklyn who sort of suggested I should write something in English, maybe.

The experience convinced me that probably I shouldn’t do that.

Later today I did it anyway. Listening to an album by Nala Sinephro and absentminded browsing the works of Elsa & Johanna then, as I cleaned up my room, I stumbled on my discarded off-piste notebook and messed around with it a bit.

The title is due to the fact that I mailed it to myself, corrected something, then replied, still agreeing that it most likely sucked.

However I think the title is nice, well, you know, so…

Music I listened to: Space 1.8, Nala Sinephro , Warp Records WARP324.

(Note that this is not an opinion on Nala Sinephro’s music — I totally love Nala Sinephro., She has her heart in her music… It is absolutely wonderful what she and the other musicians on that recording have created so the title below is about my writing reflection as described …)

Re: Nah, this sucks…

Oh yes I know
Why are you saying that?
I don’t know
But you just said, you know?
I know

Those were the moments
when wine drunk me

Now there is nowhere to turn
as even nothing has been taken

What to remember what to keep
if there is none to remember it for?

I’m not that poor
I can make another tea
throw the rest out
we can squeeze Earth
a bit more
won’t be room for all of us
but those remaining would
have global heating and
forever float in pink hot fudge
polystyrene foam
happy bubbles
no need to buy
rubber ducks
we can go
to the beach
and have a swim
among all of them
in space
the oceans
giant vaginas and penis fish
chasing love
in lukewarm caffè latte dosed
with plastic pellets


I know that one they
said it had talent
could be a star
failed spectacularly
imploded to
black holes
the rap music
beyond horizons of events
a palace of space
is turning turning


5 ways to get you out of bed in 10 seconds or less!

Struggling to get up early – before 1, or at least 4…

No, not A.M. – P.M,. like in the afternoon. I decided to try my hand on making a list, on that – how to get you out of bed.

Music I listened to: Anatomy Of A Murder, Duke Ellington. Columbia Records 1959 CS8166

1. Sleep rough during winter outside a nightclub at sunrise to unleash the drunken agonized young men who didn’t get any that night. They will kick you in the face and send you off running, wide awake, ready to work as a social media content moderator.

2. Develop a suitable addiction so that craving – this your most accountable partner – can manifest and wake you up at the darkest hour, just before dawn, to work your rock ‘n roll moves, twist and jerk until you can get your hit and slide off surfing to work as a social media content moderator.

3. Move to a country bordering on you-know-what and you’ll be woken up by rocket fire or shady characters rummaging your living room for teacups to fill with radioactive substances, doorknobs to smear with nerve toxins, or children to viciously torture for a splash in the media. Wide awake, terrified, in shock, and perfectly alert, you’ll rush screaming to your job as a social media content moderator.

4. If you have arthritis in your spine, go to a coffee shop in a major city and strike up conversation with a 30-something mentioning meditation and they will immediately say “You should try Yoga!”. Get that info and try those poses just before you go to bed. Then you’ll be sure to wake up before the devil itself in excruciating pain, just able to crawl across your cold (easy to clean) dirty tiled stone floor to reach your emergency stash of ultra-strong painkillers stored from your last trip to surgery, eat them raw in cold sweat, chew on dust, and find yourself wide awake, head spinning on a needle, ready to dash off to work as a social media content moderator.

5. You’ll be fired, then called back to work for some lunatic who runs a site called Twat, Twatter, Tit – or whatever, allowing you to destroy the planet by trolling unstable masses of immature maniacs. You won’t be allowed to sleep while working on the collective suicide of humanity, so there’s no need to wake up, or—for that matter—see any urgency in getting to work, ever again, as a social media content moderator.

Proto digte – side 74 notesbog 7 – To Pharoah Sanders

Efter en tid
rammer en sangfugl plet
Hvis man er heldig
bliver man
melodisk transporteret
Ravnen har arbejdet
på det
En dag
Pharoah Sanders
opdagede raw sound
pure love
Det var umagen værd
Thank you
Pharoah thank you
Love is everywhere
love is
everywhere Pharoah
(Journey to …)

Proto digte – side 65-68 notesbog 7 – Splintret erindring

Splintret erindring
resterne op diskret
tilbagelænet med violiner i
karantæne hvad nytter
en banjo i denne
situation efterårsstorme
sender alt videre til
bage til ny begyndelse noget
dette at tale om der
skal leves må leves at der
ikke er mere at vente på
selv i de endeløse øjeblikke
hvor alle venter på næste
side i dirigentens partitur
tæppet trækkes væk for eller til
afslører alt det
velkendte i ny fortolkning
« åh nej » vi må udbryde
vi må
være til være
med komme til festen
finde frem til pindemadderne
det der skal til?

Midterdelen af bølgen står
med ét firkantet i geometrisk
afmagt og balancerer cirklens
kvadratur mod surfets uanstændige
kurve protesten frakturérer det
elegante swung tonsvis af salt
vand vibrerer kortvarigt og brækker da
i tusind stumper ud over det hele
intet ingen intet-som-helst ved længere
hvor dét er
hvordan dét endte
at komme tilbage
til dét
kan kun være en drøm ikke
at den ikke skal søges
men da og altid kun fremad næste
den næste bølge for denne er

Blå væske blokeret bag
barriere sort olieret
vand flydende labyrint mellem
fragmenteret poesi håbløst
eksperiment indsmurt i massiv
tjære revnede plastikspande rejser
næbet og flakser afmægtigt med
vingestumper bevæget smerte
desperat vilje til reproduktion
til sidste øjeblik dog forsøge
kæmpe sig fri og atter svæve
galden det grønne måske gullige
sprøjter ud af næb koger i
indvolde snart den sidste
plastprop det sidste skruelåg
fra diet coke skal lukke sylten
på endnu denne garbagepatch citizen
tragisk havfugl styrtet
digter druknet

Og måske lever verden i tiltro
vandrer skuer mod fjerne
de er der stadig stadig
væk i vejen for
udsigten deraf ansigtets
bekymrede træk
tiltro til at næste
runde giver bonus
at trods sneklædte tinder
da kan man fortsat finde
parkeringsplads til køretøjer
hensigtsmæssige tiltag
at køre rockmusik ud over
det hele så de da kan forstå det
troen på nyfalden sne
at den rent faktisk faldt
med et brag i nattens fløjl
nogle vil vantro hævde
at den svævede
at den dækkede for
fantastisk udsigt
arkitekttegnet beton
omend kun forbigående
tiltro til at det grå
de grå eminencer
tunge regnmættede skyer
bjergmassiv salt vinterbølge strid kuling
himmel og hav i et
vind trækker hvidt skum
i strimer
iskoldt salt vand slår
ansigtet hånden mod ansigtet
det slår hårdt
kutters levende væsen
må holde i riggen
heldigvis kun kortvarigt
det varer ikke ved
trods det hensigtsmæssige er noget
flammende rødt
Solen: Blændende hvid
Natten: Sort
havnen flaprende klaprende urolig men dog stille
og nogenlunde vandret

Kom hjem
kom hjem
kom hjem

Cat Buddha

After a peaceful summer with neither mice nor mosquitoes (for a change) a mouse found it’s way into the house. Made immense sounds kept me awake all night, ate my Swedish bread and shat in my marmalade. I looked out next day and found that a Cat Buddha had materialized.

I see, I said to myself, that’s what drove that mouse to party like hell.

Now, a few days later mysterious and creepy events ensued as I caught the intruder in the act munching my bread – again. Startled, but without hesitation, it performed a blistering cinematic kung-fu parkour running over a thin metal wire, jumping on coffee cans flying over my teapot diving almost vertically down (about 20 times it’s own height) not slowing down and then all of a sudden manage to vanish without trace.

Very nice! However: I got traps! Lots of them. Humane traps: licking up the sweetest coriander honey on a freshly baked bread crump it will die in gourmet-heaven without ever knowing what hit it. Or at least that’s the idea. But something is weird; I had noticed that the running kung-fu rodent seemed somewhat big for a mouse, and as previously mentioned, it did make a hell of a noise during the first night; sure mice can do that, but still? Also, I was convinced mice could not reach the bread shelf on the metal grid, normal mice that is. Anyway, I set up the traps and night falls. As soon lights are out I hear running noise and then ZSCMACK!! I say a little prayer “Oh mighty courageous mouse rest in peace”, feel victorious, so fast, it worked like a charm, should I make a speech, take a picture? I go inspect the trap and I find blood splatter alright, but no dead mouse?? It got away, but how? Another trap goes off, without noise, ah, I say to myself annoyed, a dud, setup too sensitive it was and I feel somewhat stupid. But wait, a mouse there?? A small normal one this time??? I got … it? But then … um … what was the other “thing”? It was’nt this one; that got send of into neverneverland with a clean hit as intended?

Days later a certain nauseating smell begin to appear, somewhat of old men (not very reassuring for my ego), and I notice something under a radiator. At close inspection I see blood stains. Now, under the radiator is another trap – a counter measure against invasive ants, double sided strongly glued tape (Which by the way the spiders have figured out how to use as they have found a preference for hovering just over it – a coincidence?). The other guy was stuck in it. The other guy? I pulled the tape out, a slightly smelly dead rodent followed. It. Was. Big. With a tail, a big tail! Last time I saw such a tail it definitely was not attached to a mouse. A rat!! It was a young rat, still small, but indisputable a freaking rat!

Update on how to fix roofs by eating dates

As discussed in my post how-to-patch-a-hole-in-the-roof-totally-bio the concept was to seed a forest of date palms after casually enjoying a box of dried dates and then count on the palms to provide natural cover – eventually. Obviously this approach would ask for some patience; however, how has it gone so far, actually (you may ask)?

Like this! All the pointy leaves represent one date palm!

Anyway, I have to admit to throwing in some other sorts of trees to enjoy a book about cultivating Bonzaï trees I got at Quai d’Art Estampes Japonaises anciennes . Also, one of the date seeds didn’t come from the box I consumed but was offered to me as a gift by two adorable young women from Seoul late night at the reception where I work. Now, then (Surely this is important!): Which one of them is the gift?

If I decided to weed out excess palms then the one left should be that one surely!

Anyone who knows palm trees can see the problem: too many trees too little room and moving them would really require assistance from a brain surgeon to meticulously sort out all the roots without breaking as much as a millimeter of any one of them (As if you damage the root of a palm tree, it just dies, no way around that)…

In any case the summer breeze playing with this baby forest is how things stands now.

Under the Moon at night

… so I played sax in between the trees on a small hill in the moonlight this night at 2.12 AM in a mostly deserted parc in Paris …

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