Cut-up-poem on painting on cardboard, prayer rug size. Instructions for use: aim directly towards the nearest conscientious brain.

↓ “Pray be …” or “Your part of Time”, 510 x 785 mm, mixed media on cardboard.

Prayer_cardboard_txtApply and repeat. But be quick about it. We’re running out of time. And brains.

Thanks go out to the TSA for checking my suitcase for contraband and leaving a note about it, telling me that they would not be responsible for any damages done while doing their job. Also completely disregarding the sense of invasion afflicted upon yours truly. As you know, dear reader, I do not favor borders. In my opinion, the divides between nations, creeds, races and the like should not be enforced but celebrated with open minds, hearts and arms. (Looking at you, one-percenter)

So while it’s totally unrelated and I’m horrifically disgusted by the tearing down of historical artifacts in the Middle East in the abuse of religion (the latter being a waste of intellect anywhere at any time, anyway) I am studying ancient crafts and mathematical arts from mentioned region and paint geometrically inspired. Since I travel with an array of art materials always foraging wherever I go, some of those (beware of implied irony: very small containers of very suspicious liquids) probably were flagged in the x-ray.

The language of the TSA note is as passive aggressively daunting as anything anyone entering the US through the hands of the Homeland Security would ever experience. To assuage the asperity of that I chose to re-appropriate it. Cut it up to find the true message within their text. The result feels a little like a prayer, a polite request, doesn’t it?

To sincerely feel free
please appreciate
however unable

if you have the contents
to open this process
please do this.

your next questions
and your suggestions
break the locks on your

forced to Center:
on how to protect you
from this

your part of Time



What you buy does not make who you are. You are what you digest. Now take out the trash, please.

↓ ”In is as far as Out, #2” or “Burden, #2”, (290 x 270 mm + 290 x 280 mm), mixed media on cardboard.

A sequel to the former piece on the same subject. The correlations to world events are hard to digest. But in short: it all goes to shit. Or rather merde. 

↓ ”Collective Narcissism” or “Map of Denmark, 2015.”, (876 x 617 mm), mixed media on paper.ethnocentric_data_collectionI can be quite binary in expressing my world views and I apologise if I’ve ever offended you. Unless you are one of those  homophobic, xenophobic, bigoted, ethnocentric, racist ass-wipe-danes who thinks it’s ok to stand on a highway bridge, spitting at Syrian refugee families, walking (walking!) as fast as possible through tribal denmark, just to seek asylum in Sweden because petty denmark certainly is not a friendly place for people of colour, traumatized by civil war. Then you have my full scorn. 

↓ work in progress, (155 x 254 mm + 155 x 254 mm), acrylics on crescent board.
Spilling some beans here I guess. Another digestion reference?

↓ work in progress, (267 x 288 mm + 267 x 288 mm), mixed media on cardboard.
Buy one, somebody else gets one free. Charity through consumerism. Still wrapping my head around that.

↓ work in progress, (287 x 314 mm + 289 x 307 mm), mixed media on cardboard.
No comment. But yes, my media is a cat-litter box. Yet another digestion reference. What goes in must come out and go somewhere. Right? 

↓work in progress, (⌀355 mm + ⌀280 mm), mixed media on cardboard.
Round formats. And I have no idea what to do about that. I mean, whats up or down here? Really?

Actually, refugees don’t flee in order to get in. They come here, because they have to get out.

↓ ”In is as far as Out” or “Burden”, (435 x 230 mm + 240 x 335 mm), mixed media on cardboard.

On that note it’s important to keep in mind: borders between our nations are not constructs designed to keep aliens out either. They are put in place to keep you, me and also the xenophobes in, in check, in line, from interfering, from conferring.

Oh home, sweet home, I wrote you a poem. The dearest reader must excuse the danish, and find an approximated translation below. The references to both national anthems and native pop songs probably don’t come through to a non-dane and I apologise for that. In regards to the issue at hand I think you must count yourself happy. Leave it to the danes to be sorry. (though I am sure that these days you can find your own local predicaments that hopefully are handled more gracefully)

Åh (komma) danmark
Din skede er rummelig (komma) men gold
Til dem der står dér (komma) ude
Og banker på
Siger du (kolon)
Knep dig selv (komma)
Skridt for skridt

Prygl (udeladelsesprikker)
Grænseløs kærlighed
Tandløs dolk
Spytklat (lighedstegn)

Bakke (komma) dal
Afskårne, omskåret
Sønner i krig (komma)
Slik dig om munden
Sønner fra krig (udeladelsesprikker)
Lukket land (komma)
Ørken (skråstreg) våde drømme
Bølgen blå

Oh (comma) Denmark
Your snatch is spacious (comma) but barren
To those who’re (comma) out there
You say (colon)
Go fuck yourself (comma)
Step by step

Thrash (ellipsis)
Borderless love
Toothless dagger
Glob of spit (equal sign)
Snail’s trail
Primordial sea

Hill (comma) valley
Cut off, circumcised
Sons to war (comma)
Lick your lips
Sons from war (omission dots)
Closed Country (comma)
Desert (slash) wet dreams
The blue wave


Transits of Venus (slow moving facts, unreachable truths and trivial news / there’s a poem, a code to our blues / dripping with foam, the guise of lust / Mars can’t wait to crush and get crushed)

               Millenium Catalog:2001 CE to 4000CE 
               (Astronomical Years: +2001 to +4000) 

                    Transit Contact Times (UT)
              -------------------------------------  Minimum           
   Date         I      II   Greatest   III     IV      Sep.  Transit
               h:m     h:m     h:m     h:m     h:m      "     Series 

2004 Jun 08   05:13   05:33   08:20   11:07   11:26   626.9     3 
2012 Jun 06   22:09   22:27   01:29   04:32   04:49   554.4     5 
2117 Dec 11   23:58   00:21   02:48   05:15   05:38   723.6     6 
2125 Dec 08   13:15   13:38   16:01   18:24   18:48   736.4     4 
2247 Jun 11   08:42   09:03   11:33   14:04   14:25   691.3     3 
2255 Jun 09   01:08   01:25   04:38   07:51   08:08   491.9     5 
2360 Dec 13   22:32   22:52   01:44   04:35   04:56   625.7     6 
2368 Dec 10   12:29   13:00   14:45   16:31   17:01   836.4     4 
2490 Jun 12   11:39   12:02   14:17   16:32   16:55   741.1     3 
2498 Jun 10   03:48   04:05   07:25   10:45   11:02   442.7     5 
2603 Dec 16   20:43   21:02   00:13   03:25   03:43   517.1     6 
2611 Dec 13   12:04   13:07   13:34   14:01   15:04   934.8     4 
2733 Jun 15   15:02   15:30   17:18   19:06   19:34   808.3     3 
2741 Jun 13   06:33   06:49   10:17   13:44   14:00   385.6     5 
2846 Dec 16   19:30   19:47   23:11   02:35   02:52   432.1     6 
2854 Dec 14     -       -     12:19     -       -    1026.7     4 
2976 Jun 16   17:45   18:19   19:44   21:10   21:44   850.5     3 
2984 Jun 14   09:01   09:16   12:49   16:22   16:37   336.3     5 

3089 Dec 18   17:39   17:55   21:31   01:06   01:23   320.6     6 
3219 Jun 19   20:50   21:46   22:19   22:52   23:49   908.1     3 
3227 Jun 17   11:21   11:37   15:13   18:50   19:05   293.4     5 
3332 Dec 20   16:16   16:32   20:14   23:56   00:12   235.5     6 
3462 Jun 22   23:29     -     00:27     -     01:26   948.1     3 
3470 Jun 19   13:31   13:46   17:26   21:07   21:22   247.9     5 
3575 Dec 23   14:29   14:44   18:32   22:19   22:34   131.5     6 
3705 Jun 24     -       -     02:32     -       -     989.3     3 
3713 Jun 21   15:25   15:40   19:22   23:05   23:20   215.2     5 
3818 Dec 25   12:57   13:12   17:01   20:50   21:05    41.1     6 
3956 Jun 23   17:22   17:37   21:21   01:06   01:21   175.2     5

the harder you try = jo hårdere du prøver Bukowski, translated

Once again Charles hit/hid a note of ringing truth, somewhere. And I found it worthwhile to have a go at a danification, since it’s applicable to this little self-righteous gene pool they call denmark, somehow. Knowing that Mr. Bukowski was a german-born white guy living in Los Angeles, hanging with all kinds of cats; the line about the “wise white boys” probably could have a more direct contemporary “cultural” translation, but I stayed true to his meter, somewhat. The only liberty I took was to emphasize “garbage” in translating it to literal “shit”, since we danes are very very fond of that word and use it without discrimination and always and everywhere, flaunting our ignorance that has become the pride of all our national characteristics, someway.

the harder you try 

the waste of words
continues with a stunning
as the waiter runs by carrying the loaded
for all the wise white boys who laugh at
no matter. no matter,
as long as your shoes are tied and nobody is walking too close
just being able to scratch yourself and
be nonchalant is victory
those constipated minds that seek larger meaning
will be dispatched with the other
back off.
if there is a light
it will find

jo hårdere du prøver

de spildte ord
fortsætter med en forbløffende
og tjeneren løber forbi og bærer sin fyldte
for alle de bedrevidende hvide drenge der griner af
lige meget. det er lige meget,
så længe du har bundet dine sløjfer, og ingen kommer for tæt på
bare det at være i stand til at klø sig selv og
være nonchalant er sejr
de der forstoppede sjæle der leder efter en dybere mening
vil blive ordnet sammen med al det andet
hold så op.
hvis der findes et lys
vil det finde

Imminent return … repeat

In a triangle cut out / between two gabled dark roofs / a cloudless sky turns its black back / the night into blue / i open my shuttered crusty windows / to the first of days / where you descend on me / feed me a purpose / a means to move / about and out of doors and gates / with shoulders squared / and a singing want.

At our lips.

What little else can i do / pay tribute to that surge / keep your house clean / lit and swept / your bed ready and full / of novel stairs to unclimb / uncluttered. / Every room willed nominal / in anticipating vacuum for you / me / us / this to enter / and yet every mote of dust / sparkles jubilant / through luminous clear shafts / caressing floorboards.

At our feet.


Carl Sandburg’s “Chicago” translated into danish with love, respect and awe.                  And then some.

Up till then my acquaintance with Mr. Sandburg seemed as minuscule as those cars milling by down there like ants at the foot of what then still was respectfully called The Sears Tower. Since then a new tenant has gained the right to deface it by sticking its name to the façade and title. It is now known as The Willis Tower and that only makes sense when it rains, because then it’s wet. The building is still a good symbol for the only line I by then had heard of Sandburg’s poem though: “big shoulders”. On the skydeck at the top of that majestic skyscraper there were a few more lines of the poem and in the following years I collected more lines and I learned what that poem ment to the city and its citizens. When I read it, I get it. I can see, feel and smell Chicago in those lines, I recognize the smiles and I hear the demeanor of its voice. I am very lucky that it welcomes me over and over again. Because I love it. It makes me feel at home.

Being half-bred by a german and a Dane and brought up literally on and around the border of those two nations, makes me belong to a minority in both places always and forever and because of that I like to think that I possess an inherent duality when it comes to, not only the languages, but also in my sense of nationality. The soil of my childhood has my principal pride but the geography of my soul has been taught to be tolerant of others, accepting of differences and sensitive to the bigotry of xenophobia for more or less the same reasons. As all that background to my essential integrity slowly decays in contemporary danish culture, idiocy becoming standard, intellect rendered duller by the second and politics growing backwards to the standards of the Europe of 1940’s,  Chicago steps in with new lessons for me to learn. I travel far just to find myself. For that I’d like to express my gratitude towards this new city-home of mine, where diversity is a virtue and a means to an end rather than a source of discontent and fear, by taking Sandburgs words to one of my mother tongues.

Maybe there’s hope for rotten Denmark. Maybe one day it’ll reconcile with its dwarfishness, realize the sun outside the cave and maybe find a gentle giants shoulders to climb. Maybe this 100-year-old poem can’t be understood by a Dane that hasn’t traveled. Maybe I’ll translate it to german then.

Du slagter af svin til verden,
værktøjsmager, ophober af hvede,
jernbanens hersker og mellemmand for Amerikas gods.
Du urolige, hæse, larmende
by af brede skuldre.
De fortæller mig, at du er ond, og jeg tror dem,
for jeg har set dine letkøbte kvinder lokke bonderøvene under gadens lys.
Og de fortæller mig, at du er uærlig, og jeg svarer:
Ja, det er rigtigt, for jeg har set dine pistolmænd dræbe
bare for at gå fri og dræbe igen.
Og de fortæller mig, at du er brutal og mit svar er:
På ansigterne af kvinder og børn
genkender jeg de mærker din hensynsløse sult efterlader.
Og efter at have svaret således vender jeg mig atter en gang mod dem
der vrænger af denne min by, vrænger tilbage og siger til dem:
Kom an og vis mig bare én anden by der med løftet hoved synger så stolt
over at være i live og så rå og så stærk og så snedig.
Som kaster sine magnetiske forbandelser i grams,
midt i sliddet af job efter job.
Høj, dristig og hårdtslående har du her en fighter
i lysende kontrast til de små bløde byer;
Glubsk som en hund med tungen ud af halsen, slubrer du efter handling,
snedig som en vildmand der kæmper mod ødemarken,
skovler du,
du bryder op,
du planlægger,
du bygger, river ned, genopbygger.
Under røgen med støv i hele fjæset, ler du med hvide tænder.
Under skæbnens frygtelige byrde, griner du som kun en ung mand griner.
Latter som kun en uvidende slagsbroder griner, der aldrig har tabt en kamp,
skrydende og grinende, fordi under hans håndled er der stadig en puls
og under hans ribben banker folkets hjerte,
Du griner ungdommens urolige, hæse, larmende grin.
Halvnøgen, svedende
og stolt af at være slagter af svin, værktøjsmager, hvedens ophober,
jernbanernes hersker og mellemmand for Amerikas gods.

All mine

I watch another miner escape the trapping depths
and I wonder if the world changed while he was gone.

Also, if its conceivable that the very act of his pit-fallen confinement
caused the stratum of our new, yet uneasy millennium, to shift and move.

While the spotlighted, blinding smiles obscured,
crowded our shared focal length,
did I also yearn to sense some of that light emerge,
leak out and accompany him,

did I hear his musty air escape too,
liberated just now by the bore, from under those crackling fault-lines?

Leave it to be unknown how deep it really got,
how long we really were gone to ground,
measured up, transmitted, skin-deep? How hard do we want him back?

Can we talk him in to wanting to stay below,
or will we persuade him to travel space?


And yet, prismatic, in another distorted and curved corner of the world,
a competing athlete throws herself naked, arched, from a tower,

leaving her ledge of golden promise, to plunge in perfected seconds
to her breathless pledge, breaking through all our very surfaces,
to her watery demise,

Got caught in a snappy iris instant. Rushed, then frozen, she stays
in time and light and backlit screen, unable to emerge again, ever.

From there, space freezes over, no hurry here,
her reach for signaling stars stays distant,
embedded in stale-aired and stillborn, squishy news.

Her audacious act did not change the world
from what it looked like yesterday when you were still gone.
That grain of time sticks, keeps her hanging suspended,

without gravity, viscous from her wet hands,
her effervescent fingertips twitch.


What’s more: see the bottom of what assumes to be a dried out well?

You can’t, it stays content and concealed in warm darkness,
light having nothing to do with whatever would want to go down
to dwell and delight us there,

Sundrenched grasses waft about at its unmarked rim, knowing better,
guarding oblivious bliss,

dripping with memory of resounding, revisiting waves breaking,
breaking on to shores of peace. Pounding.

Pounding. Heaving. Pounding.
Breathing a mouthful more of that soft-spoken adoration.
Then you try. Look to the top of that giant pillar
-that firm and whitewashed column,

carrying whatever profound it hides,
out of sighs and sights at its high slippery crown. We can’t.
It steals itself into unobtainable perspective,
alone together, thrusting towards stars of promise.

Vacuum explodes.