Tuesday, November 25, 2014

things / ting

when I've been alone
for too long
                                  and that's an individual measure
things take on
personalities
or thoughts
and possible speech
as I donate
that gift to them

                                   this month's lost gem taken home
                                   to the haunted philosopher's pocket
                                   he who sees Arabs everywhere
                                   and calls them scaffolds
                              
                                   strange to think a clay siren
                                   was released
                                  - under the radar -
                                   into a blond crooner

                                   his sister holds it in her stainless steel hands
                                   those hands that scratched away at the blue
                                   of the sky until it fell like flecks of paint and
                                   silencing snow unaware blissfully unaware
                                   of the slow but steady unravelling of the horizon
                                   and what's beyond

                                   such is life
                                   I suppose

training them
is another matter
of dealing
with matter
temporarily bound
in the form of pencils
cups
lamps
brushes
skillets
and faucets

that's for the host of saints
of which I am not
a member
(blond or not)










når jeg har været alene
for længe
                                       og det er et individuelt mål
begynder ting
at få personligheder
eller tanker
og mulig tale
efterhånden som
jeg giver dem
den gave

                                         denne måneds glemte perle tages hjem
                                         til den hjemsøgte filosofs lomme
                                         ham der ser arabere alle vegne
                                         og kalder dem stilladser

                                        mærkeligt at tænke sig at en en sirene af ler
                                        blev sluppet fri
                                        - under radaren-
                                        ind i en blond crooner

                                        hans søster holder den i sine hænder af rustfrit stål
                                        de hænder der kradsede løs i himlens blå
                                        indtil det fald som flager af maling og tystnende
                                        sne uvidende lykkeligt uvidende om den langsomme
                                        men uophørlige oprulning af horisonten
                                        og det der er bag den

                                        sådan er livet
                                         antager jeg

at træne dem
er en anden måde
at omgås
materie
midlertidigt bundet
i blyanters
lampers
penslers
stegepanders
og vandhaners
form

dét for helgenernes skare
hvoraf jeg ikke
er medlem
(blond eller ikke)

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