The Colour of Pain

If you cut me, won’t I bleed

And won’t my blood be red, just like yours

Not black, not brown, not white but red, as blood should be

If you twist my heart will it not crumble

And when it does will my soul not quiver

will it not explode in ten thousand deft shades

If you hurt me will I not cry

And won’t my tears be pure and crystalline

Not black, not brown not white but transparent as tears should be

If you hit me will I not feel pain

And won’t this pain be a colourless pain

Not black, not brown not white but blunt and bare as pain always is

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The Saga of The Mist

The saga of the mist

Finds me awake and alert 
A stranger on the shifty seashore 
A flower on the wall of time
 
Life is visceral for its earnest practitioners 
And here we stand 
Mad to live, mad to lie, mad to die 
Every second ticking away like steps of eternity 
 
Greenwood has long since been destroyed 
Desolation row revoked and rescinded 
The gates of doom opened for the bridal march 
Materialists, consumers, whirlpool degenerates 
 
We’re a marching band of highland lambs 
Led by innocence, led by the astute
Pray, where does this cookie trail lead 
but to Hansel, Gretel and the saints of old ? 
 

I shall run again one day

I shall run again one day I am sure
When, I do not know
How, I cannot tell
Why, Is not for me to judge
I shall fly again one day I am sure
Into the wispy winds of time
Towards eternity and the savannah sun
Towards a smile, a laugh, an embrace
I shall dream again another day
And carve you a sunset that will make you smile
A golden dawn that will kiss you from your sleep
An evening wind that will cool your eyes
I shall live again another day
Along the open road ever ahead of me
Vast, vague but always ahead
Your hand in mine, nomads in the sands of time

The Girl From The North Country

In the midst a sullen mist I gazed into your speechless face

The trepid tidings of times vanished without so much as a trace

I saw in your blue eyes vestiges of valour long since departed

Vexations of fate, truths that left me disheartened.

Into the dawns drizzle I stared, awestruck by its silence

The serene subtlety of speed defying the odds of dependable science

I saw upon your blood red lips inevitability carved in stone

Vindications of trait, potentials I wished I could own

In the spartan confines of a mirror I gazed at the pale form staring back

The circular crescendo of calamity served on a platinum platter

I saw in the nonchalance of your mien, futility and her slammed doors

Vociferous notions of hope, frozen waters neath my ship’s oars

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Oil paint in Water: The Night Before Christmas

We’re descending towards Kastrup and the sky is a wonderfully enlightening shade of misty crimson that seems to dance on into all eternity. IF I could choose a moment to be stuck in for all of time, it would probably be this one, high above the curious white patchwork of clouds a few hundred feet below me looking at the glistening aluminum wings of the plane on the first day after the winter solstice. I don’t care about what lies beneath the clouds but still it interests me as I sit here feeling the force of the plane descending, that beautiful feeling of free fall that is so wholeheartedly unfamiliar yet so indescribably elating. It seems as if we’re flying into the pink / crimson horizon, as if in a flash we’ll be on the other side of a new and utterly different world of warmth and colour. And even as the crimson fades and its beauty is relegated to static vibrations that linger ever so daintily, I still love this place, and these fleeting colours before me, and I wish that everyone around me could feel what I feel, for all eternity

On A Southbound Insomnia Train


Bored amongst the brethren beaten, beneath the bequeathed and benign. Time stands still and the ticking tinge and twirl of transcendence ascends to cadence. Condensed, cold, calm and composed like withering white whirlwinds of scarlet snow outside my window wooded and withdrawn from the vissisitudes of the past, the cast, the senescent and the present.

On an Insomnia train bound south…

Pachamama te veo tan triste / The Gift of life

I could hug this sullen silence

Dazzling and morose like the early morning’s sunrise

I’m full of peace, blushing like the red savannah earth in the soft sunrise

I could embrace this tranquil silence

Distant and faded like the dusty twilight yonder

I’m inundated by feeling, flushing like rose petals in the scorching noon

I could kiss this beautiful silence

Divine and stately like the starry nocturnal skyline

I’m overwhelmed with love, burning like cedar embers in the black night.

IDIDIT Pass- Present- Future

 

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The Gust In Shadows

A poem written in the wake of the Deepwater horizon disaster. Makind, you’ve screwed up yet again. I’d say this ought to be a wake up call, but it’s more like a defeaning shriek falling upon deaf ears.

Homo vitae commodatus non donatus es

(Man has been lent to life, not given)

The ripples on the water shimmer with a riveting blue brilliance

Misaligned and mangled from their symmetrical sojourns

The dolphins of the sea, shriek in subtle agony

Discombobulated, devastated…dreary of the desolation ahead

The crystalline sparkles of the coruscating sands dim their brilliance

Dampened, darkened…destroyed by the vicissitudes of greed

Plumes of pitch invade the purlieus, and the silence shrieks…

A deafening roar falling on deaf ears

Gents in high quarters tell tales of illusions to conceal their deed

And to this end, the ocean’s porous pores continue to bleed.

Homo vitae commodatus non donatus es

(Man has been lent to life, not given)Image

Inundated

This is a poem I wrote inspired by the floods that ravaged Copenhagen on the 15th Of August 2010. I found myself caught in the downpour on the day, and had to wade through the inundated Ryparken train station to get home. The station resembled a sinking ship, as the flood waters came rushing in. I stayed long enough to see the lights go out, snapping away with my primitive camera, desperate to linger in the decadent abyss of destruction before my eyes for as long as I could before catching the train home. Once at my station, I trekked down the hill to my abode barefoot and soaked to the skin, as the rain continued to hammer down. The sheer force of everything that was happening all around, and the panic it induced was breathtaking. The streets before me were clear and lonely, left to their decadence by the fleeing world and the sounds of the rushing waters were like a symphony to my needy ears. There was a certain cleanliness in the air, a juxtaposition of destructiveness and sheer beauty that kissed my soul. This was the foundation for “Inundated”

I’m inundated with love for this mise en scène

The trickles, so clear, so simple so clean.

The heavens have burst the banks of affection

And unleashed their content with sullen dejection

There’s a stream beneath my expectant feet

Soft, slippery…smooth as sleet

My heart flutters in tune with the falling drops

Tamed, charmed and seduced by their delicate hops

There’s a symphony in motion, whispered and delicate

An overture, morose and sedate

Amidst bleak and unperturbed winds I slide

Shocked, inspired and mystified by the tide

I’m inundated with love for this mise en scène

The decadence, the loneliness… the clarity of the unseen

The blackened skies churn with a venomous disposition

And here I stand, inundated with love for this juxtaposition.

 

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