Udstilling
Pa komfuret star en kasserolle med brasndte rester af lys, det er aften,
havet har lukket sit oje, og astronomernes fugle flakser allerede rundt
mellem skyggerne pa loftet. Alligevel tor du ikke se mig i ojnene og hvisker
dit ansigt ud med en blod klud, idet du nogen laegger dig i maleriets ramme
og lader dig udstille. Langsomt spreder du benene, sa dine laeber kan lukke sig om
andedrsettet, for du er spaendt ud i denne times vakuum, din krop krydset over verdens midte.
Udefra
Handvaerkerne rev husets vestvendte facade ned, gik til frokost, og vendte
ikke tilbage. Beboerne er ikke flyttet endnu, og fra gaden kan man folge
deres daglige goremal: Nogle sidder ved et bord og spiser, en ligger i sengen
og laeser, en anden stovsuger med apatiske, sieve bevaegelser og et fravaerende,
tomt ansigtsudtryk. Nar man gar forbi om aftenen, kan man opieve, at alle
beboerne i ejendommen sidder og ser fjernsyn pa samme tid. Set udefra er
det et forbloffende, foruroligende syn: Det er bagsiden af deres ansigter,
som vender fremad.
Munden
Jeg moder dig en frysende kold decemberdag pa Stroget lige foran Sailing,
og du taler og taler: Bla gnister springer mellem taendernes solvkontakter,
mens stemmen abner og lukker kraniets relae, og mens det langsomt bliver
morkere, skriver alle endnu ikke forte samtaler sig selv ud pa den uendelige
telegrafrulle, som er din tunge. Forst da taendernes emalje spraekker under
belastningen og abner op til en hel gletscher af hvid smerte, sa rodderne
snor sig rundt om kaeben og taenderne knalder sammen som en bjornefaelde,
holder du endelig din kasft.
Flodhest
Nar en flodhest dor, udstoder den et brol, sa fiskene falder dove til bunds.
Flodhesten er en stor oppustet mavesaek overtrukket med skind, et naturens
vidunder, der flyder, aeder, knepper og kun sveder blod, nar den er sovnig.
Det sidste brol slipper al luften ud. Ingen har derfor endnu set en dod
flodhest.
Akvarium
Hun klasder sig af, traeder op i glaskassen, stikker fodderne ned gennem
hullerne i bunden og traekker den op omkring sig, sa gummiringene slutter
taet omkring hendes lar. Jeg haefter kassen fast i kasderne, der haenger
ned fra loftet, og abner sa for hanen. Idet vandet nar op til kanten, tommer
jeg posen med guldfisk ned i kassen og skubber de to overste plader sammen
omkring Det er bagsiden af deres apsigter, som vender fremad. hendes hals.
Sadan elsker hun, at jeg ser hende: Som en torso i et akvariums lys.
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Exhibition
On the stove stands a pot with burned remains of light, it is evening, the
sea has closed its eye, and the birds of the astronomers already flutter
among the shadows on the loft. Still, you do not dare to look me in the
eye; you wipe away your face with a soft cloth as you lie down naked inside
the frame of the painting to exhibit yourself. Slowly you spread your legs,
and your mouth clamps the breathing in, for you are stretched out in the
vacuum of this hour. The X of your body marks the center of the world.
From outside
The handymen tore down the westward facade of the house, went to lunch and
did not return. The residents have not moved out yet, and from the street
you can study their everyday routines: Some are sitting at a table to dine,
one is reading in his bed, another is vacuuming with sluggish, dreary movements
and a vacant expression on his face. In the evening when you walk by, you
may observe that everyone in the building sits and watches television at
the same time. Seen from this viewpoint the sight is bizarre, disquieting:
they wear their faces inside out.
The mouth
I meet you on a freezingly cold December day on the walking street right
in front of Sailing, and you talk and you talk: Blue sparks fly between
the silver switches of the teeth as the voice opens and closes the relay
of the skull, and while it slowly gets darker all the conversations we're
ever to have are printed out on the infinite telegraph tape that is your
tongue. Only when the enamel of the teeth cracks under the strain and opens
up to an entire glacier of white pain, so that the roots wind around the
jaw and the teeth slam together like a bear trap, do you finally shut the
hell up.
Hippopotamus
When a hippopotamus dies it lets out a roar, so that the fish fall deaf
to the bottom. The hippopotamus is a big inflated stomach covered with a
hide, a wonder of nature that floats, eats, fucks and only sweats blood
when it's drowsy. The final roar releases all the air. That's why no one
has seen a dead hippopotamus.
Aquarium
She undresses, steps up into the box of glass, sticks her feet down through
the holes in the bottom and pulls it up around her, so that the rubber rings
fit tightly around her thighs. I fasten the box to the chains that hang
down from the ceiling and then open the faucet. As the water reaches the
edge, I empty the bag containing goldfish into the box and push the two
top plates together around her neck. This is the way she loves that I see
her: As a torso in the light of an aquarium.
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