Daniel Mølholt Bülow

A҉Ｕβα๔ ᗴ 

Poem for "Divas", book by Longetti 2020 (http://longetti.dk/divas)

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“Miss Moore:”, you call. “Ohh shake me up, shake me in, pull me forth and drag me out, will you?

 

I see how in between my

 

consciousness and actions, intentions does not come through.          In loose groups they fly and leave naive, rough and half-finished marks.     But I see it only in quiet moments at home, when the sun    my skin and music the room.”

 

          “Ohh, umhumhu humm.. ahh, ahh ahh, ohh, ohh ohh.., yeeeeeh, ihh, ih ihh, uhh, uh uuu..” she interrupts.

 

 

    “In the entwinement of what is controllable and uncontrollable to us. Here;

            make sense, here

 

we sense and here; avoid the void, the neo-void, the loss

                                                                                                  of ourselves,” you finish.

 

She has stepped forth, and so the next step             must come. Miss Moore

has dragged herself from the edge of the seat

                                                                                   to the floor of Delfi,

 

Malmö. She was for summoned to do a            final act, a first act. How

 

would she Carry along?

                           A dreadful, dying energy           was tearing

         her/him/them apart from the rest.              Ohh lord,

how deep the scar between them?                            She, who does not cum

in vain, who steps on broken glass with glee,                who always answers your call in the forest. How could she Carry along?                  The night approaches her, and darkness prevails. Down and              down into the abyss of mind no actions can prevent. No actions           can prevent.

                          In time, all will fall from grace.             All but her.          Kudsji Carry Moore, who never came to be,         but always is

in motion. Through the empty, white fog         she shines deeper and darker than aether.

Yes, she is gorging herself on your infected, benumbed life.

 

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-Space of that which never came to be

                              -Step of all that went wrong

                              -Feel the stretch for that which no longer is

                              -See actions that may come

 

 

Miss Moore hi§§ƨeƨᵴ;        “Ohh I don´t know whymmmmooooo-uuuuhhh... I hear a sound of an abundance of rain...

haman da aka ata rata deda paka sonda ata anvo osa tata rike eke balda ata rike didi asha da.”

 

                                                              𝓣нＥ ᒪ๏几𝔤 𝓝𝐀Ⓘㄥ𝐒 𝓼𝕥尺ᗴ𝕋cＨєѕ                                                                ŦĦᖇỖＵ𝐠ħ 𝓉𝓱€ 𝓐丨я, ¢𝕦𝓻𝓋єѕ 𝐚ᔕ                                                                     ι𝒻 𝓈𝐡𝒆 ʷ𝒶𝓝ᵗŞ Ｓ𝕠ᗰ乇𝓣𝕙ᶤ𝔫Ꮆ ｅˡѕ乇.

 

 

       “Cast the Seed into the Field of Night,” Kudsji sizzleᵴ.

But you are blinded by light.

With the words drawn inwards in cute marks, you call and call: “intentionally” “intensity” “ identity”!            So desperate! But JC repeat until “you” are no more! Ease, ease, ease...

 

 

 

There you go.                                    Deep breaths in crystal sea.

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           Basking in the tranquility of vacuum,

 

yes in the belly of the system, in heavy heavy heavy moonlight you lay. It slows each impulse down to indecision. The gloaming of your calling will release tensions. There be a frustration in your lazy acts of instant pleasures, and so warily you let go of the bouquet. But it will help your decapitated consciousness to float. Turbid water, intentions sinking.

 

                                     “fike hata anda ata oro bata rata ande eke eke monda rasa da.” Her step-like vibrations absorb and reabsorb effectively       the sense, as soon as it is produced. Miss Moore is twisted, you see. Yet, there is a stretch for something. A breach for someone. A reaching hand.