Posted in: digt, filosofi

Smitmig

Smit mig sagde jeg smit mig

til David Foster Wallace smit mig

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af lethed men for evigt af sang

such dark songs springing from shame

and high ideals exerbated with the twine

tying your childhood bicycle to the garden rail

there is no need for memory

it is all there

in one body

I wonder will it float

into the heavens of lost or immemorialized ideals

either way

outside of everything

your body is time