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

Ironminer: hero

The past is like a dream, and I cannot understand the present

my mind is thick fog like black powder smoke

I feel like the king when he rode into death in Lütsen

nights are my only sanity

days are like plays on a set

the curtain was closed but life wouldn’t pause

I met people in the street and they weren’t grieving

I wanted to stop them and let them know

I still do sometimes 

I want to explain to them who you were and that now you are not

how can that be?

where are you as I write this?

are you still in the cabin

by the work bench in the tool shed
by the lawnmower

did you check the spark plugs this year

did you hook up the pump from the lake yet?

I will help you when I get there

don’t worry

we will make it through another summer

did Sven catch any fish from his pier yet

did he say?

does Rune still come by for a glass of whiskey?

and grandma is making her famous lingonberry jam?

do you know?

soon we will have our midsummer celebration

I grew some potatoes and we’ll have the first batch then

and grandmas pickled herring

it will be the way it it’s supposed to 

and Nadja will sleep on the porch

and everything will be the same

and Hannas bible in the cupboard by the fireplace

the ww2 german bayonet on the wall

tell me again, who did you trade it with?

are you still taking walks on the old dirt road

do you still carry that same good staff?

did you really quit that chewing tobacco?

but still keep some in the fridge of course

just for now and then

and there’s only crap on tv
like always right?

and then its new years and I am there

with just you and grandma

I have sparklers from the store and chips and we all watch Dinner for one

before the bells toll for our future 

like in a funeral chapel

I will tell you about the fish I cought

I know you’re too old to go out there with me

but just last year you were walking?

and I came to the hospital every time you fell or had a stroke

I dropped everything and left

I drove three hours in two and was there before you had even seen the doctor

I met grandma in the ER doors and just walked right in

I told the nurses to go and see you and to not let you wait

I was there all the time

I would have given you my heart if they would have taken it and used it

I would have cut and ripped it out myself with my own hand and the Mora knife

I visited you every time you were in the hospital

bought you car magazines and fika bread

every time but this time

I couldn’t come

I was on the other side of the world

I wanted to go

I should have still gone

but I betrayed you

I didn’t mean to

I didn’t want to

I wanted to be there with you

I wanted to die in your place

I wanted to let you know all
that our culture can’t say

I wanted to heal you and save you

from 95 years

from heart failure

from death

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