D|o|G, 2019 | I sit berømte værk 1984 skrev George Orwell: “If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face – forever.” Nu præsenterer D|o|G – Diaper of Glory – et digt, der med orwellsk klarsyn og fortælleevne gennemskuer samtiden, men aldrig taber indlevelsen og medfølelsen med den rådvilde menneskehed.
Timmy had a tiny arm. His legs were buried beneath a farm. One day Timmy went to town, but soon his smile turned into a frown. ‘Cuz what Timmy saw that day will make him able to say, “hey”. Timmy was a stillborn unicycle. Timmy is obliviously also a euphemism for warm, unwashed, indoor male sex.
The egg was rotten before the land was red, so now I don’t see the enormous step. I built the air of inward light to greet the Malaysian cock of might. Springtime is like a confetti canon in my pants, to erode a moisty handlebar candle in part of France.
I kneel before the swine of flute, as terminal house bread seems to compute. The idea that a loveless bug will at all time eat the second-to-last rug.
Ring the brooding telephone of lime to make a coffee boy of shady slime. We may never know the true extent of an ice-cream-covered penis in a tent, which may very well not be for rent. Fingers crossed and semen in my crouch. KH 5 Lir.
Jonas was a piggy zip, a landlord and a lovely prick, who turned my introverted side outward, by puncturing my rectum with a fashionable bus card.
Tar is a needy friend.