Tag: Engelsk

My orifices oozes class

Like a piece of cheddar

Equipped with a

Quality stench

Dripping

Cultural references.

I feel for sleep, eating and drinking tonight

I’ll take brain-stem jive – all the time.

Frontal thinking takes you furthest ahead

But a shake an’ bake living makes my cake.

Walk with me
Lucy lee
We’ll stroll through parks down to the sea
I’ll walk till my shoes gets tired and old
Dear Lucy Lee let both our hearts be bold

Let me take your hand let us stroll
Well dream of sleep while blue waves roll

Talk with me Lucy Lee
We’ll chat about the birds the bees
I’ll talk till my silver tongue turns gray
And when my larynx jumps I’ll kneel and pray

Let me hold your head embrace like lovers do
We’ll dream of a life of me and you

Swim with me
Lucy Lee
Dive into marshmallow seas
This honey flavored love of mine
Needs the love of your own kind

Let me lift you up where every angel cries
We’l dream of flames down where the devil dives

Now kiss me
Lucy Lee
Nibble on the hand that gives you sweets
I would illuminate the skies for you
If you would merely give a glimpse or two

Let me gaze into your eyes till all time stops
We’ll dream of golden fields and amber crops

Notice me
Lucy Lee
I know how blind a pair of eyes can be
I’ve written a dozen of songs for you
but piles of paper doesn’t seem to do

Condemned to give birth
Cursed with a boy or a girl
Come to me angel of death
Tak a life, mom or child, do your best

A nocturnal embryo
Lit by the sinners glow
A cry from depths below
Bids you welcome to the lowest low

Fetus in fetu is what I am she sighed
I took the step back from pristine butterfly
To cocoon inside my very own child
Like a wet white wrap around a shotgun bride

The flames an grief collide
Stoked by the irons I slide
Try as I will, and I’ve tried
I can’t slip the needle inside

I remember a song.

A song about a tiny cloud passing people, ducks, mountains and lakes.

An observing cloud that, at a time, has an accident and pisses all over the road. Embarrassed it returns home for a clean diaper. What a day it must have had!

And what a weird diaper it must have worn!

I know why I would buy one.

I know the different situations where I would buy one.

I have sometimes even MADE one myself – with more or less succes. But choosing which one to buy is another matter.

Colors are important, the types of flowers are important, the ‘thingies’ (pine cones, sticks, curly branches) besides the flowers are important and how they are put together are important and I simply have no idea how, which, what or where to begin.

Is it taught in a school, picked up at random or laying somewhere in our blood? This knowledge and technique? Has it anything to do with gender? Has it absolutely nothing to do with gender? I can’t wrap my head around it and trying to confuses me even more.

I don’t even know if I want to know anymore?

Do I want to make a bouquet myself?

Have I at some point been jealous of someone else skills in bouquet arranging?

Will I in the future?

Does this carry any symbolisme?

Me being so confused regarding flowers?

In the end, they are just beautiful and nothing more. Red poppies, blue lilies and yellow sunflowers; all pretty, all flowers, all everything and all just pretty.

It’s there a line of concrete. A pool tables rail for my car and me.

Its a revolting feeling in my gut from the imagined sound of teeth gnashing against it.

A feeling followed by a taste of blood a texture of sand and pain, the smell of sweat from my forehead – What a horrid movie. What a horrid intro – What a gnawing and painful relationship I’ve built to a small lump of concrete stretch out in the infinite keeping us in line as we drive towards the sunset, drives towards a future; not so bright, not so dark, not so much as anything, but a forward motion towards nothing in particular. A line, rail, a feeling of freedom and obscure memories with no association to anything in particular.