buewhale

  Voodoo Absent minded I drop a herbal tablet on the glass table. I can hear it roll and stop but I can't find it. It's not behind the mug, the fruit basket, the ash tray, the tobacco pouches or the empty Cinderella video cassette. Maybe it's because I can't do two things at once: taking out a tablet and watch James Bond trying to avoid being killed by a sneaky voodoo man at the same time. Probably. almost spring I check the pollen count to make sure it's o.k. to sneeze . Voodoo Fraværende taber jeg en urtepille på glasbordet. Jeg kan høre den trille og standse, men jeg kan ikke finde den. Den er ikke bag kruset, frugtskålen, askebægeret, tobakspungene eller den tomme Askepot videokassette. Måske er det fordi jeg ikke kan gøre to ting på én gang: tage en pille ud og se James Bond forsøge at undgå, at blive slået ihjel af en lusket voodoomand på samme tid. Højst sandsynligt næsten forår jeg tjekker pollentallet for at sikre mig det' o.k. at nyse ...

Without warning “they” begin renewing parts of my body, exchanging bits and pieces following a system I can't make head or tails of. I say “they” because I sense more than two hands but I can't see who or what they belong to. One pair of hands is working on my right lower leg. It rips out the pieces of muscle that has sorta made knots of themselves and feel sore. I watch gloved hands put in glass marbles in nice colours and toy soldiers (the kind you're meant to paint yourself) while the toes on my left foot are being capped with steel caps with claws that would fit a dragon's feet. “How am I going to walk in those?” I ask. “You aren't,” says a voice coming from who know where. “You are meant to fly!” “Oh, well ...” I don't know what to say. Who doesn't want to be able to fly. “But I haven't got any wings.” “Patience, boy, patience.” steady rain it seems sleepless too … file date: October 21, 2014

  Dough She eats only white industrial bread. Two of her children are lumps of dough, the third, that boy she had by an African man, is made of fire. They cannot sleep in the same room. Each time she goes to the mosque she reminds herself to ask the imam to look for a suitable husband for her. Preferably a baker or one with an oven. after dark the flow of cars dwindle But she has little luck. The imam doesn't speak her language and she doesn't speak his. By the ritual washing of the face she forgets to avoid her mouth. In the contact with water and hands it disappears like when you smooth out cracks in a bread before you bake it. The fiery boy kisses her and it takes weeks before she can talk or eat again. outside the candy store blueredyellow stars in the tarmac --*-- Dej Hun spiser kun hvidt industribrød. To af hendes børn er klumper af dej, den tredje, den dreng hun fik med en afrikansk mand, er lavet af ild. De kan ikke sove i samme værelse. Hver ga...

In the supermarket it's Duran Duran's “Wild Boys” filling the space supposedly meant to … to what? And fittingly a little boy flutters around wearing a Spiderman costume, his mother calling out his name along with short commands: “Mikkel, don't touch that!”, “Mikkel, put that candy back. We already have enough!”, “Mikkel, come here, we're leaving!” and so on. cautious spring the first moth drowns in the oil lamp Another boy comes over to Mikkel and they talk about going home to drink some warm chocolate. Mikkel says: “My little brother isn't allowed to drink hot chocolate. He has to sleep a lot. Mom says chocolate will keep him awake. He's not allowed to watch X-Factor either”. “Wow, that's tough” the other boy says without really understanding what he's saying. It's just something “you say”. “Mikkel's brother is only 9 months old” the mother says. ”Wrooooom, wrooooom” Mikkel and his friend are now jet planes and with arms stretched out the...

Many, many moons ago I went on a t’ai-chi retreat. We'd each choose a tree to stand in front of, make a circle with our arms (shoulders relaxed, palms inwards, fingertips pointing at fingertips not touching) and sit on a horse that wasn't there. Each morning started with an hour of that after a lump of yeast washed down with a cup of hot water. “B12 vitamiiins arrw impotant.” The old Chinese self-proclaimed Tao sage was supposed to go round checking our pose and give us words of wisdom, but he preferred to grope the women's buttocks, legs or exposed skin and not take any notice of the male participants. brewing storm the Xmas tree tethered to the bus stop On his way from one woman to the next (those with big breasts) he'd cough up what sounded like a jelly-fish and spit it out on the lawn where we'd go through his version of the short Yang style t'ai-chi after our “standing”. classical training I keep the moon on my head … file date: December 12, 2014

  Snow A few ticks away from winter solstice in the warmest winter recorded I buy 5 cans of fake snow. They'll make excellent prizes in the raffle we'll have after the Christmas dinner. “Feels like the real thing” it says in large letters. You can say that about a lot of other things as well. Even people. not having heard of Mt. Fuji a snail crawls op my second storey window . Sne Nogle få tik væk fra vintersolhverv i den varmeste vinter, man har registreret, køber jeg 5 dåser med kunstig sne. De er perfekte gevinster i det spil terninger, vi skal have efter julemiddagen. ”Feels like the real thing,” står der med store bogstaver. Det kan man sige om så meget. Selv mennesker. uvidende om Fujibjerget kravler en snegl op ad mit andensalsvindue … file date: December 10, 2014

as the salt dissolves in water the sound of the teaspoon scraping against the stoneware neti jug deepens. The lukewarm water goes in the 'open' nostril and out the other. I change nostril when half the water's used. The moon seems to wane faster than usual it's just summer’s time going faster than winter's ditto where the green was a red in its place I return to the computer and some 3 or 5 new selfies are posted. Fatigue of the bad kind creeps in under my skin and neither the Nigerian nor the Iranian national football team are worth looking at on the telly I take a walk round the village homing in on it it disappears … file date: June 16, 2014

  Another SAD haibun (Seasonal Affective Disorder) a cloud descends and takes up residence in your head. it settles around your brain and squeezes the optical nerves thus making the light that enters your brain very little and very faint. 2 maybe 3 photons an hour, that's it. you try to drill a hole in it, sniff up bad incense, blow your nose very hard but it doesn't move. then it begins to lay eggs, cloud eggs, and when the cloud chicks hatch your head is full of noise and rain. in this expanding universe I hold you still closer you've been through this before and you know that staring into the portable square sun will help but the mere thought of making room for it on the table is too much. you'd have to move the piles of books you've been meaning to read, the piles of sketches you thought you'd make into drawings, the odd bits of plastic you've salvaged from a world of disposables … drip drop drip the clock on the wall enters the quantum...

Having participated in some rounds of an ongoing kukai without excelling in votes, I decided to write a haiku that would fit the general taste of the collected participants. By then I must have read close to a thousand haiku on various subjects always wondering about the choice of winners. None of them was exactly my cup of tea, but there you have it. Taste is a strange a varied thing and you can't really do anything about people liking what they like. But strangely the taste of that group of haijin seemed homogeneous, frighteningly homogeneous. I could have decided not to enter any future kukai but I set up an experiment: give the participants what they like. Put your personal preferences aside and write like “they” do. Fake it and please. Bend over, rather; crawl for a taste to get votes. Write like they write and see what happens. I wrote a haiku, faked a haiku I wouldn't normally have written and it got voted in at 2 nd place. That was my last kukai. moon viewing no one s...

  Birds' Chatter My eyes wander from the laundry bag and out the window to that seemingly eternal wet dusk pretending to be 'a day'. My eyes wander from the laundry bag and out the window to that seemingly eternal wet dusk pretending to be 'a day'. My eyes wander from the laundry bag and out the window to that seemingly eternal wet dusk pretending to be 'a day'. My eyes wander from the laundry bag and out the window to that seemingly eternal wet dusk pretending to be 'a day'. I do the dishes from yesterday's supper and listen to a distant flock of birds' chatter. The washing up liquid form an igloo of foam in the sink. in the falling leaves too bits of our exploded mother --*-- Fugles pludren Mit blik vandrer fra tasken med vasketøj og ud ad vinduet til det dér tilsyneladende uendelige, våde tusmørke, der skal forestille 'en dag'. Mit blik vandrer fra tasken med vasketøj og ud ad vinduet til det dér tilsynela...

  Heroes ”WOW! It's already 25 years since the wall came down!?” ”What wall?” ”The wall in Berlin, stupid.” ”Ah, that. Reminds me of: I, I wish you could swim like dolphins, like dolphins can swim Though nothing, nothing will keep us together We can beat them, for ever and ever Oh we can be Heroes, just for one day.” I play my air-guitar like I've seen Carlos Alomar do it on grainy videos. “My favourite dolphin song”. “Ignoramus!” deep autumn at least there's the sound of a distant party . Heroes ”WOW! Det' 25 år siden, at muren faldt!” ”Hvilken mur?” ”Berlinmuren, dumme!” ”Åh, det minder mig om: I, I wish you could swim like dolphins, like dolphins can swim Though nothing, nothing will keep us together We can beat them, for ever and ever Oh we can be Heroes, just for one day.” Jeg spiller luftguitar, som jeg har set Carlos Alomar gøre det på grynede videoer. ”Min yndlingssang om delfiner.” ”Ignorant!” sent efterår i d...

“Saints of the Western church get stigmata as a sign they're partaking of the sufferings of Christ crucified. Saints of the Eastern church glow, become radiant, thus showing the Uncreated Light of Christ on Mount Tabor.” “What's your point?” “I'm just saying that the focus of faith is different and maybe the whole approach to life with it.” “Perhaps. Do you take sugar in your coffee today?” “What is it? Wednesday? No, no sugar today. It's a day of fasting.” K. put on his sanctimonious face. morning sneeze I put on two pair of socks … file date: October 9, 2014

  Smoke "Philosophy and poetry begin, grow from, exactly where and what you are. They have nothing to do with Utopias or daydreams. They don't take place in a room separate from everything else in your life. You don't have to say something profound; that always ends up quite lame and banal. So, grab the chance to get this experience that will add to your life.” ”You just don't wanna go do the laundry alone, eh? Nice try, buddy.” K. stares out the window at a pair of crows trying to take off with the neighbours house. not the Milky Way the thin white smoke of the crematorium . Røg “Filosofi og poesi begynder, gror fra, præcis fra hvor og hvem du er. De har ikke noget at gøre med Utopiaer eller dagdrømme. De finder ikke sted i et rum, der er afskåret fra alt andet i dit liv. Du behøver ikke sige noget dybt; dét vil altid lyde tamt eller banalt, Så, grib chancen for at få en erfaring, der vil tilføre dit liv noget nyt.” ”Du vil bare slippe for, at tage v...

  Atchoo I can feel it coming though it's still a bit away. You can - under special circumstances - get a cold from staring for too long at the horizon. Indirectly. You (that is I, I'm just trying to say it can happen to you too, to anyone) empty your mind as it's caught up in wandering that imaginary and very fleeting line where nothing ends and nothing begins; it looks that way. Then microbes you picked up earlier get up in gear and launch their attack having a great time multiplying in your bloodstream. I'm not saying you (I) should be focused on and obsessed with everything that goes on in your body. If you did that you couldn't do anything else, but there are lots of people who do and just look at what they miss out on. I'm just saying that shifting your focus from the horizon to an object closer to you might be a good idea. But it's hard, I know. There's definitely some kinda magic in that line that really isn't there. October sun as so...

  She carries a bottle as if it was a baby. She's walking barefoot although it's November and though it's unseasonably warm it's still cold. That there: “everything is relative” thing. Just inside the park gate she opens the bottle a pours out a shapeless puddle with the viscosity like a jelly-fish. It sighs and takes what sounds like deep breath. A few moments later it begins to wiggle and waggle and grow. There's a head, a torso, arms and legs come out and at finally there's a beautiful young man standing there dressed and all. He looks like an average of every beautiful young man as they're portrayed in movies, commercials and in magazines. Sort of smooth and anonymous. He opens his mouth but not a word is heard. “That's my boyfriend,” says the girl. “I always take him to the park when the weather allows.” She looks at him with eyes that glitter from adoration. “What's that with his voice?”, I ask. “I like my boyfriends silent.” She whistles...

It's another of those days where the fog is all there is to see. I could be romantic, mystic or allegorical about it but I'd rather just stare into it thinking nothing. That I'm good at. carnival Spongebob shares a lollipop with a toothbrush … file date:March 2, 2014

    in this civilised language the word for 'I' takes 45 minutes to say it can only be written with the blood of unicorns or with starlight diluted in the tears of saints still alive (it takes the amount of paper that can be made from a 150 years old tree (and it has to be more than 75 metres tall) and everyone is forbidden to say their own name aloud; if they do they have their nose pierced and tied to a ring above their navel and the mirrors here are magic: they don't reflect their owners last train hoots something with long legs drowns in my tea you are permitted to say 'you' - which is 'u'; to shorten the distance – and 'chair' and 'train' and 'silicone chip' and such but only shamans can actually say 'starlight diluted with the tears of a saint' 'crow's song' 'smell of stars' and such and only to the likewise initiated heatwave in suffering I return water to the air … file date: August 1, 20...