A lady on the radio tells me
people who drive
big cars
and despise environmentalism
tend to gather in villages.
I drive to my doctor’s appointment
because there is no bus.
I drive to the train station
for 15 minutes
because there is no bus.
I drive to the post office
to sell my second-hand clothes
because there is no bus.
I drive to another train station
20 minutes further
because there is no train.
I am 16
and I walk home for an hour
because I missed my bus
because the only bus to my home
at 11 am
is a train to another village
and there is no bus after this one.
Me and the dogs
have always been startled
by loud noises
leaving behind
a trail of garbage.
Rivella
is a soft drink from Switzerland,
created by Robert Barth in 1952,
which is produced from milk whey,
and therefore includes ingredients such as lactose,
lactic acid
and minerals.
Other than Switzerland,
it is sold in several other countries,
notably
the Netherlands,
and is available in several varieties
depending on the country.
Red, Blue, Green,
Refresh, Grapefruit, Mint
(Switzerland);
Yellow,
CLIQ Peach,
CLIQ Rhubarb,
Elderflower
(Switzerland, discontinued);
Original, Green tea,
Cranberry, Pineapple
(Netherlands)
Now to be enjoyed by my friend in transit
from Norway to Egypt,
as Germany and Veganism
discourage me from it.
The light hits my arm and my screen,
editing the skin map of my character,
adding to my fear of skin cancer.
Pixels are always the same size.
Unlike the spots that worry me.
I want to I selfishly contain
UV rays.
Not for the environment,
but my fears.
I love the pretty flowers in spring that make it
hard to breathe. Looking is hard when cannot see
through your teary eyes. But I need them like the air
they pollute for me. There are worse things in there.
You ask yourself. How much can air really change
until the tropical spiral staircase makes you
dizzy from height at the botanical garden.
Huh. A small change truly does go a long way then.
Seeing the alps
Fresh cut grass
You love spotting cows
But not their implication
The smell of liquid manure on the way to the post office is strangely nostalgic to me. As a child my parents used to refer to the smell as “countryside air”. The nostalgia is a little misplaced since it is not as if I ever got too far away from it.
On my grandma’s 90th birthday she was visited by the mayor, receiving signed papers congratulating her. This of all places was when I heard that a lot of these slurry stores every farmer has have been built during World War II in anticipation of supplies from other countries becoming sparse.
Come quick,
the cows we bred
for entertainment
are poisoning the air.
But I should have known that my view of the past is romanticised as the idyllic small farmer image was destroyed for me when the local farmer boy threatened to throw me into the slurry pit. The kindergarten teacher never believed me it happened. The boy is posing with baby cows on Instagram now. The considerate small farmer.