It’s been hard to stay positive here in Denver with the absurd cold (high of 30, low of 2) which kills any chance i have to busk.
I wrote the following song over the course of my busking in Europe. There was this annoying set of coincidences (or what have you) that one part of Copenhagen was called Christiania and that I ended up going there a few times – and it was the perfect metaphor of a place. Then Oslo used to be called Christiania also. I stayed with Pontus in Stockholm in a place called Kristineberg… Everywhere I went in Scandinavia I was dogged by that name and images.
Ten days and thirty one nights,
Halfway lost near Christianshavn,
Three eyes, sipping one tea,
Laying claim to fleeting ground.
Grey skies with nary a cloud,
Hanging high beneath the stares,
Of ghosts shuffling with the same gait,
Peddling each a different ware.
Running through the many steps,
These shattered streets have humbled.
Eight months gone, four thousand miles,
But I still stumble…
Voice strong, struggling for tips,
Moved along from Vigelands Park.
Cold waves deaf passion adrift,
In gentle eyes with a manic spark.
A wash of rain, an iris gleams,
A drunkard points to copper green.
A darkened room, a passion loosed,
Left unwanted, broken, bruised.
Memories burn in Frederiksberg Have,
Chasing skies that can’t be caught.
Kisses salt wounds never closed up,
From a porcupine hug amounting to naught.