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 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.

The Moths in My Closet

Pink hangers carrying silk, leather, feather, fur and wool 
The shiny clothes are still wearing their hours of fame 
from their nights at clubs and bars
with you at my side. 

You and me 
we fell apart, crumbled, became dust 
spread with the wind 
but the clothes still tell our story 
the clothes are made of the threads 
that once bound us together 

I look at the dancing clothes
They whisper in the night when sleep evades me 
they are left like I was left 
but they are still alive 
they have retained their colors 
and their dignity 

The clothes are the monuments 
documenting the laughs and the minds 
starving were it not for love 

I walk up to the closet 
two years on the hangers 
the silk dress is still dancing down the street 

Dare I? 
Dare I? 
Dare I reach? 

I reach out and touch 
I touch
just then the dress crumbles and turns to dust 
I touch the leather, the feather, the fur and the wool 
they too turn to dust 

Had I not opened the window 
I might have been able to collect the sand 
from the floor and save it in a shrine 
but the breezy air is thirsty 

A sweep and a swallow
and all is gone 
silk, leather, feather, fur and wool

Text copyright © 2017 by Berit Brogaard