Saturday, 18 June 2011


it drags on in skindergade/ old lullabies

and historic whispers/ all come together

it's night in the daytime/ and all

is let loose/ the cranes/ in frederiksberg

garden/ are jollypicking the quiet desperation

of a multitude of wheelchaired men

suddenly electrified by being subjected

to grace

water from boarded up kitchens

is instantly holified in the cup holders

two stories up/ in a house/ in another

part of town/ a silent prostitute

on creaking floorboards

returns to bed in amagerfälledvej

venetian blinds set with scotch tape

lightly adorns her persian rugs

in the universities/ students carry pillowcases

and heavy feathers/ into the dayful nighttime

haunted by vicissitudes of absent ghosts

in the city/ people stop inhabiting coffins

upscale graveyards are downscaled

into midscale real estate

kongens nytorv is up for grabs

but nobody knows

israels plads is given up

to a bilingual junkie

hc örsteds park is flooded by the city council

while the green grass/ of long forgotten

hunting grounds pushes through

sidewalks/ worn thin/ by the ambulance

of time

bicycles/ unknowingly/ jinglebelly in

the break of every dawn

in lustrous ouvertures/ the pavement

crack like glass/ at the feet

of the returning game

suddenly catapulted

into the highlights of contemporary obscurity

the fifth floors of nörrebro/ österbro

vesterbro/ frederiksberg/ valby/ vanlöse and

nordvest/ are no longer conquered

by her majestys regimented postal workers

they deliver their letters at home

to vary recipients/ sickened by this exaggerated

indulgence in correspondance/ and progress

and effort/ and the tiresome truth

that words carry on

from a dull microphone in griffenfeldtsgade

unplugged/ every syllable of every poem

from the beginning to the end

of the literary war/ is sung silently

as a hush

picked up only/ in a tower of prayer

discarded in a basement near mjölnerparken

and further out/ in klampenborg

in a heavily bejeweled tower of song/ that

bridges the precipice between two soggy mounds

it's bells hanging on the outside/ like tangents

for the deer and the rabbits

and the hedgehogs to cross and play on

the sparrows prepare their beaks

at blågårdsplads/ by rinsing them

in glimmering crescents of reappearing light

the seas manufature comforting whimpers

as the waters refract

their golden hibernation

the fish parade from nordhavn to sydhavn

to christianshavn/ like underwater unicorns

to umbillically undulate at kanin ø

so it is time again/ you realise

for knippelsbro to never/ and always

lower it's corrugated body into the

ultramarine slumber

of an innercity basin

for langebro to unite/ and reunite

the anemic brick houses of amager

with the anemic brick houses of the city

in a two-way blood transfusion

time/ you think/ to realise

that the bridges are not really burning

but are merely obscured

by the return of the sun

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