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.

Kassiopeia

I den trötta lilla staden
hoppades man på raketen.
Den stod mitt på stadens torg
och var döpt till Kometen.
Med den skulle man fara
till stjärnorna och åter.
Det hela var en plan så djärv
att vanvettig den låter.

I den trötta lilla staden
där bodde ett stackars folk,
som trots att stan var grön och fin,
sökte en ännu skönare holk.
"För på andra sidan är det grönare."
Det är så man brukar säga.
Och därför var Kometen nu
riktad mot Kassiopeia.

I den trötta lilla staden
var nu ett glatt ståhej,
och folket packa' väskor
och såg till att skynda sig.
Och när allt var klart för avfärd,
och alla var ombord,
då sa kaptenen: "Tack och hej!"
som hälsning till vår jord.

Och sedan sköt raketen upp,
och for med vindens fart,
mot stjärnorna med svans av eld,
en syn; så underbart!
Man red så ut i rymdens eter,
i universums svarta hav.
Med ljud blott från reaktorn,
som var Kometens nav.

De for förbi Saturnus,
Uranus strax därpå.
Men sedan kom en upptäckt,
som väckte stort hallå.
Ty kursen den var sned,
nån grad från Kassiopeia.
Katastrofen var ett faktum,
då det inte gick att väja.

Ty i den trötta lilla staden
där raketen hade stått.
Där låg en sak på marken,
något tillsynes smått.
Det var raketens styrspak,
som lämnats i all hast.
Man hade haft för bråttom,
och glömt så viktig last.
Och folket ropa: "Ack och ve!
Vi missar nu vårt mål.
Det är nu ute med oss!"
Lät man höra med ett vrål.

I den trötta lilla staden
fanns ej nån klagosång.
Ej heller något barnaskratt,
som hade hörts en gång.
Och borta var raketen,
och staden snart den med.
Och kvar fanns bara ängar
och deras gröna pläd.

It Went Like This

Charles always gave us advice in plenty. His mouthwords would at times ring through the long mansionesque corridors. This peculiar resonance feature of our home-abouts was particularly potent during summery days of jasmine stink and verge trimming orgies. We never knew why it was so.

Rapid Fire

Mad Max Melancholia
By the dry river bed, curling serpent-like, a makeshift shack sways in the Fat Man-breeze. You can almost hear the rasping Geiger waltz. And all dances to the rhythm - bushes, yellow grass, rocks and stones - all of it. And the remains of our time lingers. Skyscraper skeletons looming in the distance, plastic and metal trinkets littering Eden, drawn into fantastic disarray by the wind. The mighty wind called forth at the dawn of Gods. Its the refreshing wind of change. A change, making Gods cower in makeshift shacks. Cower, at the sight of their own hand.


I know, it borders cliche. But what can one do when facing the wear and tear of language's fabric and essence. Not that there is any essence (I would say), only wear and tear. Which brings us to number two in today's pulverization of personal integrity, since loss of language constantly seem to derail every pursuit of poetic diligence.


Bushwhacked no. 5
There is no jazz in this here sky!
No swinging moves or asking why,
no honky tonk grooves or outcry
for a somersaulting flyby.

There is no 'jiggy', funky feel
no freedom laughter or appeal
for a clearer bluer sky ideal
without this black Achilles' heel.

So here is now my one demand:
Begone with all this blinding sand,
let's fly away to bebop land,
and no more follow their command.

___________________________

Ticktock, ticktock.
Time is short, time is fast,
if you wait you will be last.

Commitment and influence

Commitment is lacking. I cannot muster it. And what I would influence I don't know. My everyday is commonplace and have made me realize the ease with which workaholism can enter ones life. Creativity is at an all time low and intellectual work out is rather absent.

However, I will now force my fingers to produce lyrical shit and poetic pretensions perceived by possible peers is definitively purely coincidental.


rjeeotihjäerohsgfgfhdrekjdkfjfutr i skallen så brygger vi hej satan kolik jerico maj i dag f y bubblen retas hej nej hej du ska hej ytan mer uppe uppe ytan nere ger inte herticjasdkgfjh sablar erings snd fy verighasdfg kliar ert inte nu nissaddeererijwg är intttty hej kind ger inte ute beröm mer snart kommer slutet början när inte början är tillräcklig när nu när snart slutet kommer kommer snart slutet nu kommer slutet nu nu nu nu slutet.


Now they are all worked up. Fuck you fingers, you fish stick fizzy bits! Here comes another!


I speed and I tumble
Tumble in speed
Speeding tumbler
I send death rays into your heart
Speeding tumbling death
Rays into your heart
Heart death
I heart death
Tumbling rays of future death
I send it to you Ray
Death to your tumbling future
I heart your tumbling speed
And I speed to your heart

And stumble


Obviously not quite there yet. But apart from some yesterdays four lines it's been quite a while. Not only commitment is lacking, skills are too. Tuesday was waffle day I think...


Mina sinnen är vaselinsladdriga våffeltarmar och min mun kallar på dig igen och igen och igen och när du sladdrar så kommer vi längre är våra tarmar räcker och du kan inte vad jag kan och du och jag och vi är inte mer än vaselin på eftermiddagsvåfflorna som sladdrar på bordet och om jag tar min våffla och kastar på väggen så fastnar den en stund och sedan så blir allt svart när våra tarmar exploderar i en regnbågskaskad av grönt och min apati får mig att se dubbelt men du säger att det är ingen fara för det gör alla andra också.


Muäh! That last one was not only bad, it was stretching the limits of what can be considered shit poetry. Which by the way is the main genre in which I toil.


Now fuck off. I have lollipops to suck on.

Dust-toe and oboe

Dreamy our steps tread the rusty soil
Where the serpent coil,
Where the termite toil,
And the savage sun makes our red blood boil.