Cimbrer Land, a home (Himmerland, en hjemstavn)

My land is a peninsula, attatched to my other flesh merely by a small strip of land between Angest and Klejtrup. All other borders are water. This is true. Only by the four kilometres southern border between Klejtrup Lake and Onsild, there is no water.

There is water, lots of water, sources that spring from between massive hills. Sources that bubble up from the underground. Streams. lakes. The raised bog Little Wild Bog is a big sponge, which maintains the winter three weeks longer than in the other land, except from Great Wild Bog (up north, Vendsyssel, in the darkness), which is also shrouded longer than everyone else in the cold fog. here, i can sit in the hollow road for days, and turn chippings of stones, if it was not because The Thunder Calf, in a mighty drunkenness, had punched such a big one, that the chizzle fell out of my hand, and got stuck in my wrist, right in the artery with such a tremendous power, that the doctors had to place a menhir in the wound instead of the chizzle, as the blood would flow like the water from Little Blue Spring (the mighty one) through the stream of Lindenborg and out in Limfjorden (the limit)

At this time of year, the moor is all black and shrouded in fog. The fragrances of heathers and crowberry and honey keep hanging on, and I breath so greedily, as if my survival depended on the sweet fragrance. The smeel of the moor, never let me down, it eludes me never. Its area is less extended than in the former great moor plains of Mid-vest jutland. But the fragrance is similar. The heathers. their blackness in november.

I saw the light of day the nineteenth of october in Terndrup, Lyngby parish, Fleskum shire (as the name reveals, its about bacon, the seal of the shire is a boar with raised bristles.)

I do not remember the weather in clear pictures on that exact day, but it occurs that it was greyis, October dampness. After this, I was installed by Gravlev, on top of a hill with rowanberry trees, that shone in silhouettes in front of the sunset. Strangely, these hills are a common theme. I have always had an excellent outlook. If I d not sit in a hollow, where the Thunder Calf can surprise me in his mighty drunkenness, I generally can see him come. As in the before mentioned hollow road, where my outlook did not reach. he surprised me there. he may surprise. that is what he do.

I prefer the high places. I prefer to be able to see far. Even far from the Cimbrerland, there are high places where I can establish a suitable overview. the Thunder Calf shall never surprise me again with his brandy reeking mouth. When it has rained, he shakes his big fur like a dog, and the smelly water encircles him like a halo.

"To me comes all flesh," he laughs, only God knows where he got it from. He laughs with his worm-eaten and weather-beaten face right into my face, and he reeks of brandy!

My new blog in English

It is monday, the first of October, the air is nice and cool, and I´ve spend a couple of wonderful days in the wonderful city of Berlin. My friend Andrea Schroeder just released her first album "Blackbird" on Glitterhouse Records, and I came to Berlin to be here on this wonderful occasion. And lately have met so many nice people from outside Denmark, who have taken interest in my art, and thus I decided to start translating my poems and short stories into English. It´s a funny process to translate from your mother tongue into another language. It´s almost like reading it again for the first time, as the tone becomes altered and new shades of the texts are revealed. Some things cannot be translated, other things seem to becoome even better.

The poems published hereunder are both new and old. Should you have any comments, or even suggestions as to better expressions, bad translations etc., please comment below the texts, or email me - my adress in in the right side, below the photo.

I´d love to hear from you!

Hugs and kisses from Louise <3

Big deceit

1.

Do my eyes deceive me?

there are noone here

communicating into nothing

no communication within nothing

do my eyes deceve me?

I have no eyes abd see nothing

2.

Do my eyes deceive me?

the city on the mountain is burning

nothing can hide the burning city

the rain washes down the ruins

centuries collaps

historical buildings

and wonders

crumble to dust

Hurray! Hurray!

More of that stuff!

I used to be my own master

it was so hot

I his my deceived eyes from the sun

the cold could not touch me

My sensed deceive me

they do not register the hanging fruits

the heaviness of the juicy orchids

the vapour from the fountain

the selected shadow of the sun clock

grass in million dollar league

green as hell!

Read me withour guilt

there are no words on these pages

kiss me without guilt

I have nothing to offer you

However, I can tell you

that the Teletubbies deceive each other

big deceit!

every sunday

running wild

like mnkeys

sunburnt

graimes of rain on their dusty faces

behind the rows of the wastelands

My heart deceives me

makes the brain play out

worst case scenarios

gives me shortness of breath

cold sweat

digital programming:

0: no pain

1: pain

0-1-0-1-0

binary pulse

and my brain deceives me

fuck that!

nno explanation nescessary

3.

I my dream i told the truth

with the lime green coolness of the forest

it came through my breath, without difficulty

in the morning it was gone

at night it drips from the moist poplars

stands endlessly tall against the sky

and passes stylishly and deliberate

towrads the foaming laughter

of the horizon

Soprano loving

I´m watching from the platform

while he boards the pussy train

taking all my walks

getting washed by the rain

all my clever words

flushing down the drain

Soprano loving

Soprano killing

You´ve got the evil

and the bad ass-ness

you´ve got the more

I´ve got the less

whenever you´re out roaming

oh, how I feel the pain

while you´re riding on the killing train

You know what it´s like to love

and what it´s like to kill

I know just the academic

way to break down what we feel

and your wife and mistress

how they do complain

all the while you ride aboard the pussy train

Soprano loving

Soprano killing

You ride the girls like horses

offer them a shoe

dump the fucking bitches

they ain´t got a clue

fuck them, kick them, kill them

bada bada bing

love them, hurt them, leave them

they don´t know a thing

of how it really feels 

to be the number one

all the fear and anger

how it comes undone

all my pearls of wisdom

were they all in vain

all the while you ride the ego train

Soprano loving 

Soprano killing

Soprano loving

Soprano killing

Sleepless in the City of Sleep

I´ve tried with milk

Melatonin

Imozop, Rohypnol and barbiturates

I´ve also tried writing poetry

maybe I should stick with milk

I´ve tried walking

barefooted

out into the dew wet grass

with my face turned towards

a high strung Jupiter

in the november night

with the carton in one hand

and the glass in the other

in the way too silent buzz

from this faceless city

without eyes to close

No eyes

no sleep!

Hipster on the moor 2

Why does he have that song in his head, by Carly Simon, "Coming around again", where she sings "I do believe, I do believe, I do believe in love", such start-nineties crap, because he really does not believe in love any more!

I don´t believe in love, he says to the juniper bush. I don´t believe in love, he says to the heathers.

The crowberry offers him little black pearls, and he is unable to repeat what he just said, and The Cure´s "Apart" from the album "Wish" stands as bright as day before his inner ear, and his eyes fill with tears.

He remembers when he put the vinyl version of the album on, and "Apart" stroke the first tones, the first fatal and unbearably melancholic tones, and they both went silent, and they remained silent throughout the length of the song, and when it stopped, they looked at each other and exhaled relieved, as if something horrible had just come to an end, but they inhaled again, quickly, as if something even more horrible had just begun.

Oh my, something really bad!

Hipster on the moor 1

He walks the moor in his lumberjack shirt, whilst the wind, that has torn the juniper bushes, now tears his bushy beard. What is the hipster doing on the moor? He misses his girlfriend. She left him, and suddenly he needed silence. He had no energy to play with tha band anymore, nor to hang around the juice bar with his Mac. In the moor, only the wind breaks the silence. And a sole raven. He thinks of her words:

"Once upon a time, there was a frog, that blew itself up. Oh my, what a big frog. But suddenly, it exploded, and the ugly smell of half digested flies came out of the broken breast baloon. To put it nicely, it´s a damned shame, when such things happen."

And then he saw her back, and the door slammed.

Now he walks in the heathers, that silently bloom aff. there is no shelter, and the few trees turn toward the east from the violent western wind. He is a beautiful man beneath the bushy beard and the entangled hair. She said that the lumberjack shirt was proletarian to see. that the seperation from the crowd was conditioned by the logic of wrong.

So this he now does: The wrong thing. Walks upright whilst the trees turn toward the east. But with his face down towards the heathers and tears that fall on the bluebells. There is a little rabbit, that feels sorry for him, and wipes away a tear with its fluffy rabbit foot.

Poplars

The poplars sweat tremendously

dripping with sweat throughout the night

poplars´sweat runs over 

the emptiness of the ground

The give bitrh to little skulls

that run over with milk

in daytime they blink in the sun

and rattle in the wind

But they have roots in the night

this is why we sow them

because they sweat little skulls

and run over with blinking, rattling milk

and we pluck them

lay them back into the ground

and they grow, again, towards the sjy

running over with milk

and eternity