Question giver (for the hitchhiker in Hundestage)

Stay where you stop, then move on stay where you stop then move and / paragraph paragraph paragraph, after a long time. After a long time, he hears her in the body of a grown-up, lady and boy, bird who cannot fly or flies too high, people call her Alaska, s/he stands in a plane of snow, no footsteps!


A Zone (for Monkey in Stalker)

S/he sits at a table. S/he slouches her body drapes her arms on the table, lays, her head on one side, on the surface of the table. S/he bends towards the other-formed, moves three glasses by staring, one glass at a time, over the surface of a table. A perception of possible movement. The mark of her father in the gaze from her eyes. She rests her head on the surface of the table. In his zone, the man, rests his head in the moist earth. In this zone he leads wanderers by wandering, with the absolute seriousness and dedication of a child. Child’s play, silence as movement. She is unimaginably distant from him. Absolutely further far, each other, so close. He finds a room of impossible desire, same place different wander. He cannot enter, where he offers himself. And the Scientist, the Writer, the wanderers, sit slumped before this room, puppets in the wet sand, arms dangle forward stiff, heads bow half forward down


The painter (for Rinus van den Bosch)

S/he is painter, using the Queen for a model, s/he has painted the shadow of the Queen, and the Queen did approve of the difference. Much later the best s/he can do is paint with one colour. S/he paints one colour, horizontal, one colour vertical. Difference in direction becomes a difference in colour. The painter is ridiculed, accused, ignored. S/he feels the hurt of a child, the terror of a child (door slam) or soldier (possible imminent bombing or death). S/he sees her painting, stares thoughtlessly into her painting, for hours, thumb and index fingers fumble with the hem of her skirt, when until a person presses from behind with caress, her hands, on her hands;


Guilty landscape

He sits in front of a meadow, looks into the meadow. A plane of grass and lined by trees. He does not know, and, what kind of trees, some oaks probably, but only because people often talk of oaks. He remembers nothing, no place, death, the feeble bones. Sings a song alongside the death. Long rolling. Dark dark river, entangles the meadow grey and bloody dust


Ageless pre-teen (for Eli and Kåre)

Dressed all black s/he curls up for a journey in a black coffer. There is no pain in her joints there is rubber. A young boy lets his index and middle fingers slide over the studs on the trunk’s edges. He can never see the blackness that s/he rests in, but it passes through him. He keeps her safe inside her black box. Maybe s/he will devour him, one body for another. When s/he is in her blackest box he feels the blinding desert, blast wave of an atomic bomb: one atom wave diffracts another. Sometimes tears from his eyes. Sometimes it makes him tremble, stare with unblinking eyes. He is hidden from sight, can feel the little particles of being wriggle, violently larvae. S/he is in a black box, in a forever black box. Ageless pre-teen, unthinkable, what we might call monster. The boy is about to have thought her, is about to have died. The boy is about to have thought her, is about to have died. He is for his life a salvation for her. He for his life redeems her blackest. He is a boy whose fingers stroke the stitching of her coffer, he with the murmuring of an old man offers his life as blood. He offers awkward and gentle as a child. When s/he opens her box, the slam of a wall of air when s/he touches his face her insides hurt, he is a streak of flash (the trace of an impossible star)


A figure

An old woman standing, and with the light, and it appears as if, receding into, or emerging from a darkness. Heavy black dress with white frills white collar. Thick leather face, deep faults, etched grooves. The blackness from which into which, comes thru at some spots comes thru a woman’s face, only slightly as if not. When she looks left there is a gust of movement behind her eyes, a violent smashing of window panes. When she looks right, a collapse and rustling, some squirrel shooting thru high leaves, some rat or fox shooting thru a cartoon, thru dry leaves. Sagging but thick her face, heavy not sad, troubled but only because of her face,

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