- Gift openers · Poem

Créme de la créme – Part 1 (23)

When the world is made of color
And the stars come crashing down
And everything seems smaller and smaller
Giving you a deep blue frown

You crash-land on your pillow
Sprinkled with twinkling stardust
Dreaming in a fantastically twisted flow
Red cheeks burning from the frost

And then they finally come through
The astronauts and passers-by that sing to you
You can paint this world anew
In a bright and yellow hue

Advertisements
- Gift openers · Short story

Hr Fuskefjams og Gavevognen (22)

Solen var næsten gået ned, og Hr Fuskefjams var på vej hjem. Hans ben bevægede sig, mens den øverste halvdel af ham var mast sammen og omformet af gaver som en sandwich.

Gaver gaver gaver glade gaver grimme gyldne gule glimtende

Han tog toget hjem, for Hr Fuskefjams’ kone havde heldigvis betalt hans billet til togturen fra Hillerød til Holstebro, hundrede små stop og et par fra eller til alt efter smagen

Hans ben bevægede sig unægteligt effektivt og elegant, idet han maste sine gaver ind i togvognen, og med en kraftanstrengelse fik kastet resten af kroppen med ind, toget kørte og Hr Fuskefjams kørte i modvind, men han bemærkede intet, for kun hans ben mærkede vindens vægt – resten af kroppen var valgflæsk, gavetæsk og oksekortelet, kold og klemt inde bag gyldne gaver

Fuskefjams fyldte hele vognen, men hurtigt flød gaverne ud og begravede hans sidste levende, spiselige ting, hans ben, bombarderet med udflydende fantastiske flotterier, femstjernede finurlige ideer og gaver i alle størrelser, særligt store og berøvende

Snart var Hr. Fuskefjams nemlig ikke mere, han var blevet slugt af bjerget der hungrede af sult, forfulgt af en duftende vind og en række kvitteringer for ting, der nu havde gennempresset hans krop og sind

Vognen var fyldt, og det faldt hurtigt DSB ind, at de ikke kunne fjerne mængden af sammenklemte påfund i grinagtige former, klumpen i vognen der skinnede og så underskøn ud i et solnedgangslys

Snart kom flere mennesker dog til toget som dagene gik, og gaver blev tildelt til dem, som tog, toget blev en butik og gavevognen dens lager, gyldent og sødt som sukkerflager, familie og faunaer, bring dem alle, kom og se vognen – for nu skal vi have!

….gyldne gaver får gaver gaver gaver gav nok flere end sidste år

En for en blev bunken betydeligt mindre, brikker i et sammenslasket puslespil, bomber i et minestryger-spil presset tæt sammen så der er mindre at tælle, og i sidste ende dukkede den endelige gave op fra bunden, men den var så deform og underlig, at ingen ville have den, og til sidst blev den taget med hjem af en arbejders ven, der endte med at beslutte, at det måtte være muligt at koge den.

Således gik historien om gaver, gaver, gaver, glimrende gratis gaver i Gavevognen, kom og se – ejerskab er ikke det vigtige, så tag uden at give, sådan får alle skønhed at se; sukret mad og julemagi.

 

- Gift openers · Short story

Penguins on Mars (21)

Penguins on mars are a rare sight. Small and rounded and entirely misplaced on the cold red surface of the planet. But every once in a while, if you squint your eyes real tight and look closely, you can find them almost anywhere. Like a colony of ants crawling over each other. A complicated nest of flightless birds. Intertwining networks and pathways they use to get from one appointment to another. And though a bowtie suits them nicely, their tiny wings are too small to even carry a suitcase.

 

But they waddle along merrily enough.

They haven’t got much to worry about…

 

Except their 3 pm cricket game with the new client. Or that rapport that still hasn’t been filed. Or that lunch they really don’t wanna go to, because last time they were there, the restaurant smelled of the dish of the day – salmon – which reminded them a bit too much of home and they got all emotional and had to leave, 7 used napkins, and 10-minute bathroom visit later.
After which they went home and watched an entire season of Pretty Little Liars on Netflix in one go. This is, of course, a common activity in their free time that none of their coworkers know about, because they have an image as a stern and strict authority with little time nor respect for such dull entertainment. Although they, on the inside, are a bit of a yeasayer and would rather have a big hug and some warming words than a solid handshake and a respectful m’penguin when meeting new people around the world. The freezing red world of mars.

 

But penguins on mars are a rare sight.

And I’m sure they haven’t got much to worry about.

- Gift openers · Poem

Grøn Violence (20)

Jeg kigger mig tilbage
Der står du jo endnu
Kuglen skudt ud af hylsteret – det skete sgu
It’s a festival of vomit
And a party night of filth
Blodet flyder i kanaler men er aldrig rigtig spildt

Jeg bevæger mig langsomt
Ud i engens univers
Duften af blade og hindbærsaft – helt klart ikke værst
Red and flowing, wide opening
Flowers at night time, evergrowing
Skønheden åbner op som forårets forhåbning

Tøjet vaskes rent
Befriet fra det vi gjorde
De naturlige mord var jo ganske efterspurgt
Grøn Violence is the place to do
The politics you want
Blodet blomstrer i gader

Godt vi ikke er blevet ramt

- Gift openers · Short story

Bill hadn’t shaved in a month (19)

Bill hadn’t shaved in a month. Not a single time during the entirety of February. That’s 30 days, 720 hours, 43200 minutes, or 2592000 seconds. And Bill had trouble counting to 20.

 

Bill hadn’t shaved in a month, and it was beginning to bug the people around him. On the street, wherever he turned his head, he was met with frowning faces and looks of disapproval. Looks that say

That was, in fact, precisely what happened to Bill this afternoon. So he hid in his hoodie to cover his ears, and pulled down the shade of his cap a bit. Not so much that he couldn’t see, but just enough to avoid judging stares.

 

As he continued his trip to the local gas station, more and more people gathered around him, murmuring indistinctly. Bill was wearing his earplugs, leaving him unaware of the ever-expanding mob of curious souls tracking him down the busy main street of his home town. He realized that he hadn’t shaved for a month and must’ve been looking a little rugged around the edges, but other than that, this was quite the commotion to be making over a little bit of extra facial hair.

When he got to the gas station, he quickly grabbed a few cartons of milk and a Yankee bar. The cashier nearly refused to pay him, but perhaps he found some pity for the bearded man on the other side of the counter. So he let Bill trade his coins for the milk and snacks.  By then, the crowd following Bill had turned into a horde and they were taking pictures and writing notes of what was happening. The whole gas station was lit up by the flash of cameras. Bill was shocked. But he grabbed his stuff and ran out nonetheless. It was a struggle trying to get home. Pushing and shoving people aside to try and get through. And when he finally got in and closed his front door again, he was almost too exhausted to put on his clothes. And so he fell asleep butt-naked on the doormat.

- Gift openers · Poem

Katastrofe-Carl (18)

Kom igen, kom igen, det sagde de til hans sludder.
Han fornemmede vinterregnen, på sin ene skulder;
Paraplyen trukket over, mens uvejret det buldrer
Langt væk, når han engang bliver ældre vil han indse
At nogle ting vil ske selvom man ser bort fra det

Hans veninde kigger på ham, og sagde det ku’ hun godt se
Uden at tænke på, hvad han mente begyndelsen på sne
Iskold, et kolossalt berettiget isbjerg
Stod imod farens chiliånde før hans fordærv
Tampen brændte men hun så ikke hans kulde
Tænkte sig længere om end hun skulle

Følte ildebrand i luften, temperaturen stiger stødt
mens han lugter til menuen farves hele verden rødt
Mærker efter ind i maven men vil gerne bare hjem
Fatter undertrykket smerte og det kommer jo igen
Igen…

Kom igen, kom igen, det stod jo så klart
Der var ikke noget at snakke om, det hele var jo smart
Når det regner, trækker paraplyen væk sit onde sind
Indtil frygten banker på som Carls sidste sidste ven
For i enden er det nok for sent til at ændre den

Tro mig, du kan jo godt se forskel på dem
Ja for tro mig, du kan jo nok se forskellen på dem

Følte ildebrand i luften, temperaturen stiger stødt
mens han lugter til menuen farves hele verden rødt
Mærker efter ind i maven men vil gerne bare hjem
Fatter undertrykket smerte og det kommer jo igen
Igen…

 

 

- Gift openers · Poem

Trapped (17)

Screaming and tears
Doesn’t know her fears
Confusion and rage
Slamming the doors – at least that stops with age
She is bolting up the stairs
Throat parch from yelling as she stumbles over the chairs
Drops down and cries
Google-translates truths to lies
Despairing in a pitch-black fanfare
Repairing the fabric of her soul while ripping a new tear

Why does no one care
Why does no one hear
Why does no one see
All these thoughts fighting with me

She blacks out
Anxiety is a cloud
Just too damn loud
But fuck it I’m proud
She chills out

Keeps cool with a fan made of panic
She’s the iceberg
And fear’s the titanic