Castle of leafs

When the northern wind destroys
The castle of leafs and twigs
Built on the residue of bones of the ones
That stomped this soil in times past
With frozen feet in wolf winters
In heed of the same honorable slayer
Of blizzard nights as these
The words spoken by your treachery will fail
Will fade into the winter air like smokeless breath
And the light poles along the road to the big square
Will hold the snares that strangles the thoughts
Of the traitors that sold the thousand year old monarchy
For church silver and pats on their backs



The written word is all I have
If I had anything else I would give it to you
Although this desert is cold during nights
-then i take off the chameleon skin and talk to the planets-
Still the ether burns in the daytime
Like wild geeze in airplane engines
Like how sanity of exile
Whispers away as conscience
Of adulterous eyes
And the weariness of being exhausts me
And how would I know how to deal with that?
Since my psychologist retired on the third visit
And left me hanging like lynched ideals from imaginary trees of life
Worn out as beggar shoes I reside in these sand storms
Feeding of the cactuses like camels in Arabia
Then I scribble subjective universal truth on worthless papyrus pieces 
Found in some back alley monastary of heretical desert fathers
And leave it for the sheep to digest
Or to ignore like thorns and thickets
In the pastures of their mind’s oasis
As my mind is all over the place
It is wandering like driftwood on the oceans
I am not yet domesticated
But the universe rocks us to sleep in the cradle of societies
We get spun together by merchant plots behind the set
Only to jog in our hamster wheels of misfortune
And revel in melancholy as do as Nordic folks and speak mundanely about the weather
Yet you don’t have to surrender 
To the passing of time
And let the desert heat make you weak and disillusioned 
So that you wander off for forty years
Awaiting unrepentant death of your murmering flesh
Just lift your eyes and elevate your trail
And I will write you the map to your ports by the ocean
Past the prisons of Gaza
Where we can all drink of the saltwater
And become the light of the world
Once and for all

When it’s grandma’s birthday

Eighty eight years of class struggle
in the culverts of the proletary
a bookshelf that testifies
about labour ideals from the forest
with horse and buggy and potato cellar
where winters were as hard as the ore
that grandpa spent a lifetime blowing up
while you baked cinnamon rolls for the children
that have now grasped the bridle reins
of future generations
like bark boats down the creek

Epost från förlaget

Den skönlitterära redaktionen har slaktat mig igen
som en julgris eller uppenbarelselammet 
via ett epost skrivet av praktikanten från konstfack
ett standardsvar för att understryka min odugliglighet
undanskuffad som en ovärdig aspirant
av människor som aldrig ens diktat
människor utan litterär kompetens
avkragad som en horpräst inför skarprättaren
medan förläggarna massproducerar sin pk-kvotering
och har mage så fet att kalla det litteratur
Strindberg skulle åtala hela flocken för helgerån
när författare skapas ur högskolornas svarvar
istället för ur livserfarenhet

What a world for a girl

What a world for a girl it is
what a realm for a baby girl
to face the earth with all it’s cries
it’s subtle rain and pine tree roads
where emigrating birds may land
like snowfall on the valley’s fields
a world where among the water lilies
the bass will play in sunlit lake
where wars brake out with no remorse
where fires rage like napalm rain
when betrayal turn your life around
what a world for a girl it is
when nights are cold and lonesome
but even when the skies turn red
and she is walking on the cliffs
Christ will still be there to hear you
Jesus and your papa too