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Desolation row revoked and rescinded 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 ? 

 

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

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)

This is a poem I wrote inspired by the floods that ravaged Copenhagen on the 15^th 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”