D|o|G, 2019 | De 12 måneder har udgjort grundstammen i kalenderåret siden det gamle Rom; kun voldelige samfundsrystelser som den franske revolution har haft held til at ændre herpå, og endda kun i korte perioder. Men ét er kalenderårets form; noget ganske andet er dets betydning, månedernes dybere indhold. Med rystende indsigtsfylde blotlægger D|o|G – Diaper of Glory – her hver enkelt måneds inderste karakter og væsen.
As January came, I came all over my entire wardrobe while trying to keep a quite boring conversation going with my next-door neighbour.
Then February rolled into town, while I was out of town looking for a town while passing through several other towns than the one I was looking for and eventually settled down downtown in a town I didn’t know.
March came along with its usual creepy smile/a handful of arcade coins and I automatically shoved strangers’ unwashed hands into my ever-glowing asshole.
April felt hard, as I was chained to the cornflakes floor of an upcoming indoor concert of housewife moths in the month of March, but still it hurt a bit/not at all still in April/in absentia.
May is always gay and I’m not happy, but so very gay with a pool-like inbuilt/upward quality of judging the talent of some kick-ass champion roadkill.
June collects spoons to impress the wailing tune of a buff hammock cop.
As I entered July, it became apparent that I have a hard time wearing stabile “underwear” among meaty fat Red Cross employees.
August was filled with paper work, which, according to the state of hostile career ducks, had to be filled inside the fast fart of a broken Huawei phone.
September felt weirder and a lot more normal as I lived the entire month as a Congo coloured Roman candle horse.
October was the time to be sober: No more delicious man piss in my summer holiday daddy drink/standard refrigerator.
I’m a little tiny short story. I am an angry alphabet beacon. I am the Rasputin of unwanted campaign areas. I am November’s son, Alex Nyborg Madsen.
Oh, sweet December, please marry a moving sports nail as your windy skull flows before the cruise of the north pole agriculture.