Thomas Krogsbøl



like the rain making craters in the gravel

like a wind sneaking round the corner

like the night trickling out of the mattress

like rust sprinkling from springs

like plate shaped cells carrying on with us

like quiet pulsating machines behind a hedge in the suburb

like everything more noisy than lunar landings, leaves falling to the ground, frogs thinking

like the sound of the light in a dream that’s being forgotten

like everything you know you’ll never remember

like the river of the eyes leading through the face, like your ego’s architecture on the sea front

like those paces flowing down the street

like being a nail in somebody’s coffin, meaning something to somebody

like the hares in the snow, not wanting to tell where they’re going, forgetting their feet

like people refusing to tell the truth, even in documentaries

like the autumn of the neon tubes in the basement passages beneath the hospital, the cafeteria fallout

on the stairs

like the body thanks to which I belong to a nation, even though the nation calls itself a society of


like sails inflating and flags flapping

like wet skinny dogs dying in January

like the horses returning home to the weed every night

like God saving George W. Bush from alcohol

like Caligula appointing his horse senator, “Would Mr. Senator like his hay now?”

like the only hairy planet, like the hairy books

like when you’ve still got a couple of hours before the cleaning team arrives

like the fox in a parking cellar early in the morning

like doors slamming, like creaking stairs, like the dust in attics

like a trip though the centre of darkness, like big empty lobbies, parties celebrating nothing

like Elvis entering the door, at once turning the room into one single sentence that is being repeated


like a movement in continuation of a water fall or a violent haemorrhage

like physical connections, throbbing and knocking at different places, sticky areas

like large animals shaking themselves and things falling heavily from the sky and men with nipples

like burning stones in the midday heat and burning bushes in the books

like a world of facts that the poem in a way contradicts and in another way

like the poems just being new facts

like the formulas of trees and the turning over of dunes

like the things standing farthest off on the tip of the point, simulating

like seaweed, like long wet fingers sliding over rocks

like that of mine sinking to your bottom, setting itself on the point of your cone

like when it’s right now the sun rises again and you finally find your hair

like a tangible situation for a moment regaining some of its concretion

Thomas Krogsbøl, Danish poet, born 1963 in Copenhagen where he still lives. He has published four volumes of poetry since his debut in 1999 and has been a co-editor of the literary magazine Øverste Kirurgiske since 1998. Also he is an organizer of readings and musical events in Copenhagen.