Limerick

En tvivlande man ifrån Höör
vet inte om han kanske bör
ta sin cykel, sin bil,
eller gå alla mil
till Kristianstad och där handla smör.


En till? Varför inte.

En sällsam afton om våren
på den grusade gången där går en
pikant liten man
med en spade och spann
och små rutiga shorts omkring låren.

Relativ skit

Universum är fullständigt sinnessjukt stort.
 Likväl expanderar det särdeles fort.
Men för myran och loppan och masken i dyn
finns det ingenting bortom den klarblåa skyn.
Men vare sig människa, mask, ja sardeller,
 består vi av massor av pyttesmå celler.
Och varenda cell utgörs i sin tur av
millioner atomer likt glas i ett hav.
Men även uti en atom, kanske väte,
har mindre partiklar sitt huvudsäte.
Bosoner och kvarkar och flertalet andra,
de visar oss att man kan utstå varandra,
att även om ytan är ytterligt liten,
så sitter vi alla tillsammans i skiten.

Can you see?

You can see me in the garden playing like the child of a human

You can see me wearing clothes that would fit a human

You can see me eating the same food that a human would eat

You can see me walk and move in perfect imitation of a human

You can see me bearing arms and taking lives like a human

You can see me having feelings suchlike those of a human

You can see me move my lips for lust and speech like a human

You can see me, but I’m not.

Spirlgont, oh shabbleflox!

In that retscince faschenza
we all cloburble a rescanting SHAROO!
Taktak invertoil when we kiss
and spraggle our dervishish calvsters -
on the floor,
on the freggle,
on the beachofthatvillawiththefantasticalview.
Brescantileurbingly bobylish.
Fahgrunt. Fahgrunt.


___________________________

Vogon poetry is the beat of the day!

Dansande ormar

Händerna - en svart kupa
mot den helt jävla enorma solen.

Magnetiska flammor

som blå eld

som brinnande kors
och rostande stål.

Allting snabbare än själen

fast forward

så att allt slits till strimlor

med ett skärnade ljud.

Som konfetti

gjort av bebisskrik.

Sunday and the land

The subway had taken him to the edge of civilization, and his feet had pushed him beyond.

All around him the land was dry soil and withered bushes. A place, void of human existence.

Sunday had already tried to give up his name while in the midst of men, but had soon realized it to be a futile venture. He had thereby left his home - the small white house with paint torn of it's corners - and made his way to natures bosom, to the heart of the land.

He wandered far, and the rocky ground greeted his steps. He strode wide and his name, Sunday, did not follow him.


Three days ago
Deborah leaned over the sink, her hands clutching the wet cloth.

Sunday looked upon her in silence. Her shoulders spoke of her desperation and sorrow.

The raging clamor had subsided, but Sunday now realized that their words had crushed worlds.


Two days ago
All his possessions could, and did fit into the pockets of his jacket. He had left Deborah's tears and their mutual existence with no intent on turning back. The night he had spent in the car, rocked to sleep by the thunder of traffic from nearby.

His sleep had been ridden with dreams of serpents and saviors, of which one was particularly present and vibrant, and in it the mooring cables were cut and the sea - raging and terrible - engulfed him, and bore him to a place where sea ceased to be sea and turned into sand.

There he found himself, stranded between desert and sky, and the eyes of the land were set upon him.

When Sunday awoke, his steps were of a new kind and his mind was now set.


One day ago
Sunday had seen his end. As he was mugged and beaten at the train station he had caught a glimpse of it, played out before him like an old movie in the flashing strobe-like light of a passing train.

What he saw was his body, boiling under the unforgiving sun; his back, firmly against the sharp rocks and stones of the ground. The last breaths, barely heaving his chest. Just a dry, humble panting.

* * *

Now, the late afternoon sun made his shadow a lumbering giant. The distant mountain range was not unlike the small framed silhouette of some scaly lizard.

The echo of Deborah's tears was in the dry river beds, but all memories of anguish had been washed away by the streams of sand there, woken by the persistent wind.

The lizard range followed his trial. Sounds of the city, the turmoil and the traffic could - if one's mind was bent on it - be heard, riding through the void-like skies, but forbidden by the land to linger, it flowed across the world like a silk sheet, eventually dying out. Not in a breathtaking climax, but like the fading of a black-lunged man's dry cough, and who's last breath barely stirs the flame of his bedside candle.

Now, his bruises from the previous night didn't matter, and beginning and end was becoming a blurred binarity.

The lizard range beheld his turning, and his coronation.

Here and now

So here,
in the wake of today
we've been brought from the cold.
As the hours decay
and the day's growing old,
then the reach of our hands
and the weight of our deeds
drift beyond the commands
of tomorrows seeds.

So now,
when night hits our eyes
and we gaze at the black,
the relentless skies
reminds of the lack
within our souls
and between our words;
depicting the roles
of supernal shepherds.