Poetry (2017)

A hop, a skip, and a jump away from a smiling depressed joining a jovial city of the dead

A hop, a skip, and a jump away

Oh so jolly

Oh so sunny

A hop, a skip, and a jump away

A hop, a skip and a jump away from

the rope's end

A gleeful psychic death

A deteriorating self-medicating body


     p   i
   i        n
 k           g  


A darting mind feeling the beat slow down

Thump thump, ba boom, ba bump, lub-dub dub ... dub ... dub ... da ... a ... aa ... Aarrgh!

That tell-tale mentality


The mind's heart eroding, disintegrating from the weight of its mental gangrene and dispatching mentalese.

The Ides of March

How it all begun?

I am at a loss to say. I walked 

around the city taking it all in.

The undressed couple sunbathing in the grave yard Kierkegaard's

cozy neighbors or distant relatives? Either or? Or: both and?

The logical structure of it all

too much to bear. The bare couple and their picnic basket,

a blanket cushioning them from the ground. My bare ass

scraping the ground. No cushion or mackerel in tomato sauce.

The couple kissed and talked about existence.

Is there anything else

besides existence? The logical structure of it all

clouded my mind. It was salient

that I was single, and they were two.

Or were they two? Or just one? 

They had learned the 'we' language too soon. 'We' 

are having a picnic 

next to Kierkegaard's grave. 'We' 

are naked and in love. Tonight 'we'

will sit on the balcony and rotate sausages

on a disposable grill. 'We'

will nurture a glass of Chianti, and

talk about existence and the logical structure of it all. 

They left without the last can of mackerel in tomato sauce.

It occurred to me to hurry

to catch up with them, to remind them.

Then an urge to consume flesh and blood, 

their flesh and blood,

overwhelmed me. 

I opened the can and devoured the flesh and drank the sauce,

red drops tainting my white shirt.

I had to chase them down. Certainly not easy to confess your urges, 

or confess that you acted on them.

Mackerel in tomato sauce. In a can. A lid that opens if you stare at it 

long enough. The essence of existence.

The essence is to be concealed in a can. Under the dirt underneath 

the yard where we are rotating sausages and chatting

about existence and

the logical structure of it all.

Text copyright © 2017 by Berit Brogaard