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

    By Heidenstam’s Square

    Eleven pm in gloomy green lamp light
     
    in the labyrinth of mahogny and birch
     
    a stone’s throw from the poet’s square
     
    where the exegetes of past reside in dust and heresy
     
    a squeaky staircase leads to a study loft
     
    where we underline our Luther with sleet and frozen soil
     
    as feverish as the dreams of the student Raskolnikov
     
    like red foxes that circle their prey
     
    as the wolf hour arrives 
     
    while outside is winter sleep
     
    and vague stars shining like live fire from roaring Tamil tigers
     
    but inside our camp is warm and damp
     
    a fluorescent light hums like the whispers of overdosed friends
     
    as my eyes resign over the catechism
     
    and descends the steeple roof
     
    like the raven off the ark
     
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    Se på mig (Angry swedish poem)

    (1 oktober 2018)

    Se på mig
    mitt ansiktes inskriptioner liknar en stenhäll
    läs min sorg och begrunda
    den landsflyktiges ensliga strävan

    i ensamhet tiger mitt sinne
    mina ögon har sett allt jag aldrig ville se
    min kropp är älskad bland schakaler
    i min strupe endast ormhorors gift
    när jag ses från ovan molnen där mina föregångare väntar mig

    jag ropar varg i sömnen
    och vaknar på kyliga stengolv
    för att möta morgonens rå som spinner
    sina lögner som spindelväv för flugor
    jag skrattar döda mig med din sista patron
    men du kan inte mantla den hane som signerar frihetens sigill
    såga då av din egen gren och låt mig återgå till skogen där jag föddes
    bland mossiga myrar, bäverdammar och en enslig tjärn
    där mitt hjärta vilar i jorden i väntan på Guds dag
    som en urna av den sista vikingens vördade reliker

    se på mig
    när natten innesluter tropiken som en säckäv kring en fastande konungakropp
    är jag fast i svarta kättingar som kväser det hat som närts av min exil
    min pappa var en dramatiker som lämnade mig att dö
    i en korg i dalälven
    som ett mosebarn som ingen jävel fann
    och nu i detta mörker av ekvatormagnitud
    halsar jag skymningens mödrafamn som ett helgon i änglamakerskans händer
    skriver mitt sista bokslut
    lägger sten på vårdarna
    och tar avsked av det moln du kallat kärlek.