Guideless

Letters to no one

silence that screams

nightmares all week

cought in the life trap

keep getting lost

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Evening note

I work from 5 am to 7.30 pm

drink some bottled water in my idling Honda

in the backyard by the goat corral

where the darkness spars with garage floodlights

and the raccoons and rats alike await my departure to begin their allstock feed supper

while I change the bandage on a donkey’s sore

under the light of the Odin’s wagon asterism

that lit the way for a thousand of my forebearers 

as they struggled alone through the frosty nights

in the woods of the Forest Finns

where the last ancestor has been buried already

in our coffin of steel

Royal Liberation

The Swedish way is not a bullet

but the courageous word

the consciously brave conversation

and reasonable responsibility

that’s how we made our way

on the global market of cut corners and throats alike

we stood for justice when others sat bought and silenced

like a beacon of the freezing Baltic sea

or a viking longship emerging out of the ocean fog with a dragon head chewing the mist like the jaws of Nidhögg 

We used to be conquerors

the spirit of honour and empire pulsate within the soul of our people

and we will once end the occupation of our government

and our motherland in whose tears we are cleansed of the battle of moral decadence

although the way of King Gustav was not violence but brotherly resistance

one day we will resist the occupant

and slay the dragon with the war of royal liberation 

by the hand of God

and by the sword of Gustav Adolf

the lion of the North

Distasteful

Issei Sagawa should be shot dead

after force feeding him his own arm

a Japanese firing squad should pull the justice trigger

just go bang bang on little Pang and see him fall to the floor

spit on his dwarf honour and chop him him up good

feed him to the pigs while society laughs 

and the earth applaudes the disgrace of Japan

finaly crushed and brought to the soil 

then fed to the more noble pigs


Psychoanalysis

Over and over again

the ongoing psychosis named reality

throws at us the vile complications of existence

like a rigged tax funded snowball war in which you are forced to enroll

when you are born among proletarians

and concrete orphans more twisted than Oliver Twist

like ghetto kids with knives and narcotic nights

men that walk the same sidewalk as you

the same asphalt dreams and latent ambitions

trapped in the same staircase of materia

causing the universe to circle reason

and stomp the ant man with work boots of international negligence 

like something out of an Ingmar Bergman film

as the saints will prevail like the flickering candle in an artic snow lantern

battling it’s ice ceiling like flying intifada rocks in glass houses

while the chess game of psychoanalysis continues

like the sorrows of young Werther

in the blood of your martyred nightmares

The writer

Inspiration is like the government
– only the week minded need it –
The words of air and marble manifest
themselves through writing exercises
and coffee, amen?
You just live and you learn like rats in a lab
and never question the moral of the author-pen-relationship
you plead artistic freedom to provoke or misspell
Grammar rules lie on the ground in wait of cpr
help that never arrives to the desolate crime scene
like a fellow fellon of prose and poem
stung by wasps like literary jabs
like antidotal rethorics of causal fiction
Book and pen and post-it scribbles
make up runes of odes of heroes past
eternal as the north sea melancholy
the everlasting authorship
of time