Sketches. Discharge. When you touch me, when our bodies are quite close, we are part of each other.
The view was hopeless. On the bus I wrote a text message for you. A wack room, a room for stars. I wrote in my thoughts, followed the movements of the clouds with the wind. Figs above the view. I don’t disappear. Parts of your dreams fell out between your lips. Everything is behind everything. The coffee I am drinking is mild in its taste.
The mind of the sun. Sense? Don’t disappear. All around I could only pull myself together to read a few random lines. When I think of that place, I think it is beyond everything. I read random collections of poetry. We have neither curtains nor tight schedules. My sentences are crowded and lack the precise movements of days. The last time I was happy was only this morning. Because I listen, it is quiet around here, and dark because the light sees.
On the bus, I wrote you a text message. We climb mountains and sail on the outer shivering of the cities.
I could not phrase those sentences. And we thought of the smallest details, the atoms, molecules, substances reacting with substances.
The city. There is something about places brim-full of traces of things that have happened. At the time you were still a part of the slow, black beings of the mountains against the desperately fragile silence of the night.
The sand fretted my thoughts, made them round and soft until they disappeared. But my language was not hostile. It was before the diamonds, even before the movement of my fingers through shadows, through hair, through town plan after town plan. Was the fresh foliage really on fire? The sentence that fell from your mouth just now. Take this morning, for instance: I sat alone in the sun.
It doesn’t matter.
The coal. The right-wing-nationalist sky. Do not seek God in my sentences: We are a collective. We are the delicate, the quiet.
It was your lips. I listened with my lips, let my lips write faraway countries into your wrists. The view was hopeless. To swim in the flowing water like a foreign language, unaccustomed to the way it fits too tightly as if you were naked.
The books sketched their own direction.
Like reading forgotten newspapers.
When I see you, see you, not. Up on the hill. Of other cities, other worlds. It’s just that… Grey. The pain sailing on streams of gold in dawn’s canopy of light. What do you count? The loneliness in the fall of the lines. The lights lighted.
Can I be in this landscape? When you touch me, when our bodies are quite close, we are part of each other. Darkness we just called darkness. In every day remnants of meaning slid along with me. The Town of Avedöre, three forgotten bars of a pop hit. And another day: A shy room, an intimate room. Can writing be shy? What shall we do with the violent sky? The books sketched their own direction. Around hesitant stars we came up with names for things.
You can be in this landscape.
The mad sky. Not forget the rivers in the ears.
We thought about words that continued to headline campaigns. One night, as we followed each other down our. I have written you a map. We thought of giraffes, cheetahs and long since extinct species living in the oceans. The first couple of days still quiver in the top layers of my skin.
When you touch me, when our bodies are quite close, we are part of each other. The focus, coming really close to the writing. Does that make sense?
In the sunlight we quiver like something resembling a precious stone resembling a glittering from the depths of the earth.
I wrote nothing down in that period. Where does ruined language want to go? Did I drag you along to the outermost mountains?
The fire. The scratches. Were you the night’s desperate silence? What, hangs. You had lost a line in my dream.
When I read a boring poem, I read a boring poem and it struck me: The summer was quite all right after all, autumn and winter. We have neither curtains nor tight schedules. I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly.