Written August 2020, Copenhagen, Denmark
I wrote this poem during lockdown, when the world stood still, and the nights we used to take for granted felt like a distant memory. It’s about those wild, sweaty, messy moments—when the music was loud, the drinks were strong, and nothing else mattered. It’s an ode to the kind of nights that made us feel infinite, even if we barely remembered them the next morning.
Originally written in Danish, I’ve included an English translation so the feeling—of freedom, recklessness, and fleeting euphoria—can live on beyond language.
03:46. du havde ellers aftalt med dig selv, at det bare skulle være en stille aften, men efter to vodka-redbull og tre sambuca passerede du point of no return, og nu danser du på floor med dine asynkrone armbevægelser og stiletter, der klistrer til gulvet, hver gang du løfter fødderne
og bassen pumper om kap med dit hjerte, som i øvrigt fortæller dig, at det da heller ikke er verdens værste idé at gå hen og snakke med bartenderen, men nej, du gider seriøst ikke triviel small talk lige nu, når din krop er ved at sprænge af eksorbitant eufori, så du danser videre
og du kigger rundt, men du kender ingen, for dine egne venner har lavet en houdini, men det er okay, for du står midt i det smukkeste sammensurium af eskapister, københavnerkanoner, modemoguler, rebeller og andre røvhuller, og I går alle sammen kun op i én ting – at have det fucking fedt
og det er vildt, og det er klamt, og det er fabelagtigt, og DJ’en bliver dyrket som en slags kultleder, der styrer jer som små marionetdukker, når I tranceagtigt smider hænderne i vejret, og det er næsten som om, at der er intet, der kan ødelægge den her dionysiske stemning, for det er vildt, og det er klamt, og det er fabelagtigt
men så får du det pludseligt skidt, så du vralter afsted til toilettet og ind i en bås, og du kaster op, men du skal ikke hjem, du skal videre, så du kigger dig selv i spejlet og tjekker din makeup, som du har svedt af, og den der vigorøse lækkerhed du startede aftenen ud med, er evaporeret sammen med fornuften, men din nye veninde på toilettet tilbyder dig lipgloss
så tænder lyset på klubben, og pupillerne kryber sammen som menneskene omkring dig, og der er en, der råber “morgenfest hos mig,” og du tænker, hvorfor ikke? så du ender i en pompøs lejlighed ved Kongens Nytorv, og du fortryder det instantly, fordi fuglene er begyndt at synge udenfor, og dine fødder gør ondt, og du har egentlig ikke lyst til at drikke mere
så du ryger en smøg, selvom du ikke ryger, og faker interesse i samtalen, men så opdager du, at nogen har købt pizza, og du tager en slice og falder sammen i sofaen, og det smager af ost og grease og lykke, og du smiler lidt for dig selv, for selvom du er skabsnihilist, så det her øjeblik, lige nu, det giver så god mening, i hvert fald indtil tømmermændene kommer
07:32. nu vil du tage hjem, mens dagen gryr, og senere vil du vågne op, og dit hår vil stinke af røg, og dit tøj vil være overstænket med alkohol, og din mund vil føles som en sandkasse, og din hjerne vil sige fuck dig, og du vil være fuldstændig død, men du har aldrig følt dig mere i live, for det var vildt, og det var klamt, og det var fabelagtigt, fortæller du din veninde, der tog tidligt hjem, over telefonen
03:46. you had promised yourself it was going to be a quiet night, but after two vodka-Red Bulls and three sambucas, you passed the point of no return, and now you’re dancing on the floor with your asynchronous arm movements and stilettos sticking to the ground every time you lift your feet
and the bass is competing with your heartbeat, which, by the way, is telling you that it might not be the worst idea to go talk to the bartender, but no, you seriously can’t be bothered with trivial small talk right now when your body is about to explode with exorbitant euphoria, so you just keep dancing
and you look around, but you don’t recognize anyone, because your own friends have pulled a Houdini, but that’s okay, because you’re standing in the middle of the most beautiful jumble of escapists, Copenhagen hotshots, fashion moguls, rebels, and other assholes, and you all care about only one thing – having a fucking great time
and it’s wild, and it’s gross, and it’s fabulous, and the DJ is worshipped like some kind of cult leader, controlling you like little marionettes, as you throw your hands in the air in a trance-like state, and it almost feels like nothing could ruin this Dionysian atmosphere, because it’s wild, and it’s gross, and it’s fabulous
but then, suddenly, you start feeling sick, so you stumble off to the bathroom and into a stall, and you throw up, but you’re not going home—you’re going further, so you look at yourself in the mirror and check your makeup, which has melted off, and the vigorous hotness you started the evening with has evaporated along with your common sense, but your new friend in the bathroom offers you lip gloss
then the club lights come on, and your pupils shrink like the people around you, and someone yells, “afterparty at mine!” and you think, why not?, so you end up in a pompous apartment by Kongens Nytorv, and you instantly regret it, because the birds have started singing outside, and your feet hurt, and you don’t actually feel like drinking anymore
so you have a cigarette, even though you don’t smoke, and you fake interest in the conversation, but then you notice someone has ordered pizza, and you grab a slice and collapse onto the couch, and it tastes like cheese and grease and happiness, and you smile a little to yourself, because even though you’re a closet nihilist, this moment, right now, makes so much sense—at least until the hangover hits
07:32. now you just want to go home as the day breaks, and later you’ll wake up,
and your hair will reek of smoke, and your clothes will be soaked in alcohol,
and your mouth will feel like a sandbox, and your brain will say fuck you, and you’ll feel completely dead—but you’ve never felt more alive, because it was wild, and it was gross, and it was fabulous, you tell your friend, who went home early, over the phone
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