The blood in the head is our thoughts, in a human understanding. It is a part of our vulnerable physical organism, but also a precondition for our rationality, what separates us from the mechanical and animal. Like the humans surrounding us the thoughts are our salvation and curse.
The combinations of words
are not enough,
they are only pointing out of the head,
or is it in
Wish that
I could master shapes and colours
Then I could really see and understand
Sindre Andersens poems are full of humour and nerves, portraying man as a thinking and social being, about language as limitation and solace.