The Bongo

Can you see?

2011-10-12T17:54:00.001+02:00

You can see me in the garden playing like the child of ahuman

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!

2011-09-28T09:06:00.003+02:00

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

2010-02-04T16:34:00.008+01:00

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

2009-07-05T19:09:00.005+02:00

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

2009-07-05T18:15:00.007+02:00

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

2009-05-12T19:07:00.007+02:00

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

2009-04-24T21:11:00.004+02:00

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

2009-04-05T16:32:00.016+02:00

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

2009-03-27T21:58:00.003+01:00

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

2009-03-19T20:51:00.002+01:00

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

Götterflängerung

2008-09-17T13:05:00.003+02:00

Fire, the great commotion of fire
In the hair of the trees fire swans erupt
As the Twilight of the Gods is breathing down
Oh, brother of ore
Feel it's winged wrath
Hear it's [up]roar and it's whisper
Behold it's phosphorus shadow
Wrought in the halls of Molok
Oh, brother, listen!
Silence your song of the ore
Then come, set out!
And go with the rushing sky

That Land - That Time

2008-09-08T17:13:00.004+02:00

In cruel April when the waves spread your hair,
Where the wheels run wilder on the red sand,
Where the photos never fade -
There is a fire lit in the belly of the whale,
Fiery were the fists then, darker.
The thunder spoke there
and the gods trampled us to dust.

Haircut - Shoeshine - Death toll

2008-07-22T17:44:00.005+02:00

It's been a while. Nothing new produced lately, but today I feel like unloading some compressed summer frenzy. Not that the summer is a summer. Its cornered, half-baked intentions and a rain drenched, wicked smile. Soon autumn will come to bring down the house.

Mistress! Mollify my momentary mischief and take my bones for drumsticks!
You see it, the chicken gumbo and the derelict whalebones.
You can touch it, taste it.
You and we can bring down the sun and centrifuge the sea in our gravitational pull.
Our tongues would crush diamonds.
In our wake, gods evaporate.
And so, my mistress, I await your command.
Take my intestines for scarf, my skin for coat.
My pale, peeling skin with teeth's tattoo.
Brake my sweat and fall in with my steps.
We shall witness the advent of miracles.

The Primordial Trace

2008-03-04T14:45:00.004+01:00

We can strive but never get there. Is that not what we say when we meet? We just dream of that glowing orb within the folds of our rumbling flesh and mind, within and between our opaque words. I dreamed of smelling cold spring grass - no words were needed to explain the scent. We trace and trace again. We follow to where the stepping stones are sundered and the footprints dissolve. The natives of our youth waves in the distance, as if greeting the ones coming home - home to rest and play. But reaching for it proves its illusory nature. Yet you with your childish ways, you trace and trace again.

Over the ridges

2008-02-20T00:42:00.005+01:00

I had a sensation of omnipotence earlier today. As if the only obstacle was to fill my backpack and exit the front door, and head for a distant shoreline. The question arose though: would you follow me if I take another path than the one laid out for me, for us? I think you would. I could dress in a loincloth and you could be Jane. We could live in an alley jungle and live a dream of urban decay. That would be swell! You and me, in another place with model clay circumstances and with an eye for the picturesque within gray stone and throbbing sound waves. Or, you could be Tarzan and I could be Cain, and Abel would visit during late afternoons, bringing fresh baked cookies and sing like Jacques Brel. There, panting in between motherly brick walls. There, panting... there. Hear me Jane! We together! We without purpose, yet infinity at hand! Save us, oh heavenly Father for we will sin! As surely as the stillborns don't cry, we will falter at your gate. Thus, all is well, all is swell!

Under the Bridges

2007-12-03T00:13:00.000+01:00

As we walked under the bridges our crowns slipped off and fell into the water. We could but stare as they sank to the bottom, where they still shone – blurred – like headlights through a haze of heat. You wanted to swim down to try and get them back, but I reasoned you into submitting to the predestined chain of events of which our lives consist. Then you jumped of a high rise, leaving only your neatly folded set of clothes behind. You became a beautiful splatter on the pavement. First, I wanted to scrape your wet remnants from the asphalt, but in the end, I submitted.

Roy the Boy

2007-10-05T21:39:00.000+02:00

There once was a boy, a hardy boy,
With the bravest heart and the name of Roy.

To friends and family he was very dear,
Yet they considered him slightly queer.

For wherever he went he sought out danger
And peril and death, but yet even stranger,

He had a worm’s tongue, split down the middle,
And when he spoke, his words were a riddle.

It was a pitiful mixture of snorting and wheezing,
When people him heard they thought him sneezing.

But one day young Roy had had quite enough,
He cried in despair for his life was too tough.

His cries were so loud that it echoed in hell
Where the Devil them heard and deemed it well,

That such a courageous soul as Roy’s
Was easily snared by the gift of a voice.

Thus the Devil went up and through the earth,
His head popped up as a goat gave birth.

But Roy would not stir at this hellish sight,
His heart was so brave, it urged him to fight.

But the Devil was cunning and with all his charm,
He said: “Please be still boy, I wish you no harm.

I’ve heard all your sobbing and now I say this:
I’ll give you a voice if you manage a kiss.

Though it must be a real one, not conquered by force,
Nor bought from a hooker, or laid on a horse.

This task you will have three days to complete,
But if you should fail your life’s obsolete.

Your soul will be mine and with me you will dwell,
In a place rather hot, but hey, what the hell!”

This could be quite costly, but still what a deal,
Thought Roy as he signed what the Devil would seal.

And once he had written his name on the paper,
The Devil did vanish in a sulphurous vapour.

Now all that remained for young Roy to do,
Was doing some snogging and maybe more too.

But this soon proved to be quite an ordeal,
Since the kiss was not his to buy or to steal.

But the first day young Roy was exceedingly sure
That the task would be easy and his soul would endure,

And so he did not feel it urgent to kiss,
But instead spent his day in ignorant bliss.

Thus the second day came and Roy then saw fit
To set out on his quest, both with guts and some wit.

But women would shun him and his silly charade,
And as the dusk came, still no kiss he had laid.

When the third day then dawned with no other change
Than a growing despair which was vast in its range,

He would wander and plead for a loving embrace,
Yet soon he was thinking of Beelzebub’s face.

And all women he spoke to they thought he was mad,
Since his words made no sense and his temper was bad.

He considered his cross then too heavy to bear,
And so he too deep in a river did stare.

He fell on his head and began then to drown,
And he thought it best since he’d been such a clown.

But a passing by lady had seen young Roy falling
And fetched him right up through some skilful trawling.

Yet Roy was unconscious and saved still by far,
Thus, the good lady began C.P.R.

And so with her mouth at times at his,
Was that not really a half decent kiss?

At this Roy awoke and returned her lip’s pleasure
With joy so great, beyond every measure.

The earth then trembled from the Devils wrath,
But Roy was merry for he knew that his path

Would no more lead down, but into the embrace
Of his trawling lady and her gentle grace.

And Roy then said that: “For heavens sake,”
For his tongue was no longer like that of a snake,

“So let us be wed, while little birds chirp.”
But the answer Roy got did sound like a burp.

Whatever she said it was wrought in a fog,
And her words were like bubbles from down in a bog.

And he soon realised that the Devil was happy,
Since Roy now loved one who sounded real crappy.

And the Devil’s mad laughter was echoed from hell,
But Roy shrugged his shoulders and thought: Oh well,

Though things could be better, but still yet far worse,
I did not end up in the Devil’s own purse.

What have you?

2007-10-01T23:54:00.000+02:00

Have you seen the world through the eyes of an idiot?
Have you named the cattle Yours by burning its flesh?
Have you designed the world on your own accord?
Have you cursed the man going down in the fifth?
Have you put your trust in the swagger of martial men?
Have you clenched your fist for reasons now lost?
Have you sent someone for firewood and death?
Have you shouted trust but whispered deceit?
Have you felt the hammer doing the anvil’s bidding?
Have you heard the pen scratch bridges or walls?
Have you refused the stumble of responsibility?
Have you tasted the salt of sweat and red of blood?
Have you grown your crops and asked where it went?
Have you lived and died for more than life and death?
Have you searched for truth or crafted your own?
Have you lived or have you died?

Maple leafs

2007-09-18T23:23:00.000+02:00

A tide swept in this morning.
It was a great, thundering, maple leaf tide,
and in its wake a drawn out note fell vibrating to the ground
in our concrete garden.
There – on the bus, in the concert hall,
under the water tower where the sound never cease to travel,
under the skies, next to the dying generation
in the supermarket cash queue,
behind the school cantina – there is the desolate autumn shore,
tainted by grey,
lashed by the minstrel of yesterday’s bliss and tomorrow’s
doubt.
And despite all, the tide leaves no foothold,
no note to cling to,
only a trench in the sand
in which to dig deeper. Deeper, until you strike oil
or reach China.

Yes, I do have a problem with fall. It gets under my skin, eats me, and then digest me really slowly. But of course, it's not third world starvation or nuclear holocaust, but if it's not a problem, I don't know what it is. I would say though that We, the royal We with banquets and cumbersome gardens (that we do not need to bother with), works on a different level than imperialistically victimized states and nationwide Ebola epidemics. They are part of some grander scheme, now that God feels a measly flood won't do the trick. Or are they not due to good old Deus Ex M. Could it actually be that we are fucking ourselves over?! Oh my...

To Some

2007-09-14T16:45:00.000+02:00

To some it is a crusade of the heart,
To some there is no beginning or start,
To some there is no middle way,
To some there is nothing to say,
To some it is a guided tour,
To some it is to boldly soar,
To some there is nothing but pain,
To some it is springtime rain,
To some it is flute and drum,
To some it is a solemn hum,
To some it is having many or one,
To some it is having any or none.

Hrmpf...

2007-09-04T21:46:00.000+02:00

Tusen är de solar som har lapat din glans. Du på din strandstol med armar och ben av koppar. Jag minns att havet doftade rosor och skyn invid horisonten var röd med marmorering av kobolt. Nu är den kolikblek höst och dina lemmar är sand.

Traintrip

2007-08-19T23:48:00.000+02:00

Meadow flashes by, framed by duskwood. Someone speaks too loudly. Prattle gnaws on our calamity napkin. Bongo beating, dicks batting calfskin. A mouth, wrapped around a microphone, quiver with thick sound. City closing in, slits of sky peering down. A park turns to blood. We speed into the sunset.

Audit

2007-07-23T12:35:00.000+02:00

You, my naked sister of the nine, you cross yourself as I grope for my camera. You strike a pose through the lens, and I think of home. The big old house where the weathered corners are coming off and the thicket hide a car carcase. I could stray for hours, between bird cherry and syringa. I’m drifting. You notice. I click away and you fall to pieces onto the bed. And your breasts heave to the rhythm of your cluster bomb panting. Later, we’ll have some coffee, get acquainted.

Wasteland

2007-07-21T00:43:00.000+02:00

We are here. The great tempest has passed, the green has turned to sepia ash and the cattle are ribcage monuments in the burned pastures. Yet we are here.

Between rock and skyscraper skeleton a Geiger-waltz slowly abate. And the barren land will late forget man’s outrage. Neither will we forget, as we dot the wastes with our hollow eyed presence. How we huddle, how we weep. Dry sobs, a cry of those left to thirst.

No admittance, not for the likes of us. As we, the journeymen of genocide, diminish, the blind prophet proclaims the laws set to protect the divine sphincter and infernal void from us limbo scrappers. Eden finds us too tainted, spoiled meat left for sunny day flies. Gehenna considers us lukewarm and spews us out; telling us our abyss is man made.

Hear the summer night

2007-07-15T23:25:00.000+02:00

Summer night’s veiling, shroud of stars.
Buzzing of crickets, gentle the warmth.

Hear! Those feet, all stomping for you!
Hear! That fiddle singing your praise!
Hear, O hear! Your lives’ trudging pace!
Hear! The sound of summer night’s blue!

Hear the creaking, a violin, its cry for times for which to long.
Hear the thump of feet about, a pulse for lover’s wedding dance.
Hear the fiddle’s olden tales, of forests deep and fields of song.

Memories, passions, bonds and ties,
Thickens the air, the senses enhance.
Two sets of feet and two sets of eyes,
There is the truth, there is your chance.

Hear! Those feet, all stomping for you!
Hear! That fiddle singing your praise!
Hear, O hear! Your lives’ trudging pace!
Hear! The sound of summer night’s blue!

-----------------------------------------

I wish you the grandest of fortunes, P & L.
Treasure one another, for you are truly special.

Contemporary times

2007-07-11T13:43:00.000+02:00

The waxy sun sprouting redemption
to the sound of harp's melodies,
frenetically played by baby face cherubs
and the cornered legends with reindeer eyes
throw down their loincloths
and scorch in the killing light,
a van Gogh embodiment of a spatial fetish,
being licked by vile, blue, green and red supernovas,
and crumble to the wrenching terror
of experimenting saxophones,
to which Manneken peas blood on ravaged pavements,
scarred by stellar high heels and skulls
crushed by ex-convicts trying to strike it rich,
but falling themselves face down
in a tornado puked gutter, dreaming, dreaming
of the liberation of Mother Earth
through the use of indiscriminate nuclear energy,
paying no heed to the tear floods
of unjustly born Puerto Rican children,
who’ve been force fed tourist’s depraved urges,
who knows nothing but inhaling of glue,
killing for a percentage of the loaf dealt
by Occidental cynicism,
and the brazen sunsets over South American jungle,
where yellow belly bulldozers rock the creamy pants
of the comfortably tied down, pornographic
internet generation, brats
filling the Alsace-Lorraine trenches
with dead beat mucus,
spewed out in response to all
once held for true.

A murmur of protest

2007-07-10T18:39:00.000+02:00

We can all see the jet liners as they pompously soar above. As their stream of self righteous consciousness pierce the lard blob clouds, we see them. We see them all and we crouch and huddle in their shade.

There’s a miniscule possibility they see us, or rather knows of us. Knows of us the way a tractor-soled boot knows about the bugs it will squash as it hits the ground. It knows of the sound emitting as we break.

And we see more, more than our veiled, off guard eyes can take, more than the shallow, thick-water, concrete shores of the waterfront reveal or is ready to discuss over a murky glass of wine. And even though it’s a cheap, white trash wine it would be too brash to say it’s tasteless.

What more do we see? Or well, when I say We, I’m actually taking too much credit. I don’t see that much. Actually I see fuck all. It’s them (the rest of We) doing the looking and viewing and seeing, and subsequently dying. For the blind are not in jeopardy, so sayeth the Lord. But I do neither his bidding nor theirs. I hide, here, by my desk, sometimes under it. I hide, with my rifle at hand.

Tuesday is tomorrow

2007-07-09T12:17:00.000+02:00

We were sitting on a street café, one of those with all the proper features but all the wrong ambition. Time and again an espresso machine roared in the background, like a dying beast, bleeding black. The facts of life were summarized in cigarette smoke. We talked about why people so rarely turn around. You bought a glass of scotch, despite it being a week day. Then you said Tuesday afternoon light makes my skin look like fragile canvas. I remember laughing, then growing silent as my eyes caught a glimpse of someone to whom only his face remained. Too bad I thought, he used to have a name as well. Now no more than rough pastel lines. I used to know him. Till he changed. I can't recall your reason for being silent though.

Fair?! Man, what do you mean fair?!

2007-07-05T23:11:00.000+02:00

Today there was fighting at work. Or rather commotion. One of the blissfully, mentally unequipped had a fit. His own head was the main target. I can't help feeling slightly humble when such an event settles in my mind. He's a grown man. He's not even a child mentally. Life is not fair. But then again no one said it is, except for some religiously ignorant. But I say again, life is not fair.

This of course raises the further fact that man is a wretched being trying to look for meaning where there is none. Looking for God where there is only inequities and stardust. Living by philosophies is overrated though and so, I'm back at square one. Standing there, watching his rage filled eyes, feeling his spasmodic limbs in my hands as I try to hold him down. There were four of us holding him. Or was it five? And the rage, was it because he was not allowed to sleep in the afternoon? Or did he try to rebel? A desperate struggle against the body some fucked up deity supplied him? But no, he was probably just tired. Like the rest of us.

The Point

2007-07-05T16:59:00.000+02:00

We were all cowboys. Ranching, rodeo riding, racing the wastes. Always on the move, always on the verge. Never more than a whim to motivate us. Wind blowing south, then that’s where the herd of cattle’s headed. Some of us lost what was dear, others lost so much more. But the skimming of vast planes never halted. We were on the move. We were on the beat. We were racing towards a sunset. Never mind which one. They all look alike. Breaking point is not when your steed lies broken at your feet. It’s not when you’ve forgotten the names of those lost. It’s not when you think it’s all over. Breaking point is that moment of surprise when you draw your last breath. Then you think: “Was it worth it?” Well, was it?

Parallel Lanes

2007-07-04T16:37:00.000+02:00

Down, down, down the middle.
Lane white. Snowless winter black.
Hours of radio rot.
I'm zooming out, and then in,
into some other field of vision,
into some other sense of being.
Parallel lanes is where we ride.
There's a gospel sounding in the dark,
sounding between the pines and the furs.
My tongue is a dried up almanac page,
my eyes, a zodiac.
A speeding car passes.
As it flies by I notice a crow by the wheel.
It's got a crazed stare.

Something Lost

2007-07-04T16:27:00.000+02:00

It was just a fleeting moment,
it always is.
I could trace the line of her lips back to where it all began.
"It's a rare gift." she said while wetting the stamps.
Perforated edges against pink.
She was depressed, I could tell.
It showed by the heavy beating of her heart.
There was a story being told by the necklace of congealed memories,
leaning heavy on her posture.
She sure was depressed.
I told her there is nothing as real as where the grasp fails.
She did not believe me.
Much later, as the lights of a commercial sign were humming our song,
I had regrets.

He's watching you

2007-07-03T18:54:00.000+02:00

I was browsing around at deviant earlier and concluded that old people really are the shit. Or maybe not old people so much as wrinkly faces. Faces where time has etched itself into the skin and made it look like dried, cracked mud.

This old geezer for example. Sure, photoshop has done its buisness, but nonetheless. Those trenches really make you realize where your timepiece is at.

Somewhat like a rock. A stone skull having witnessed too many sorrows, too many heart crushing moments to remain fully human. Eyes unveiled to the wailing wind, crunched by the inhumane into diamonds, pried into that cliff face. But there's no pleading. There's no point to it. There's only that intense, aware, indifferent gaze telling you: You are nothing.

Depressing bastard, shut your trumpet!

First thing's first

2007-07-02T23:42:00.000+02:00

Welcome to The Bongo!
This is where I, Marcel Bongo, henceforth shall puke out my thoughts and add some more mindless ranting to the pornographic mountain of idiocy that is the internet. Anyway, I thought I should celebrate my new blog with a poem I wrote earlier today. I call it Flower.

Flower, extracted out of blue. Blue corresponding to neon blue.
Neon blue night, just about black.
Just about black, just about midnight.
Black of a thousand uncut faces,
black of a thousand bars, of a thousand drinks,
of a thousand tremors and ruptures in the proverbial, piss stinking,
lollipop-faced, ass-legged black.
Flower, with a dick in her hand.

That's about it. It always strikes me though, something like a week or two after i write shit like this, how crappy it is. However, I've decided that post-editing sucks ass so written word stays, even if time makes me think twice.

Tonight I dreamed of living in The Sprawl. It was... nostalgic.It felt like home, yet I quite hate big cities and the urban extreme. There was a tint of yellow in the air as of smog, or maybe like an old movie with a gentle static shielding the eye from the bare, naked truth of the world. It was reminiscent of that vision of America that never was. Peculiar, since I've never set foot in the land of the free and the joyously ignorant. There was a saxophonic feel to the neon lit streets and people moved along the boulevards and the alleys in an orgasmic rythm. I stood in the middle. I didn't move. Crowds rushing by. My spot in limbo was an eye in the storm. That rattling, low frequency storm that rolls and curls up your sleeve, leaving you exposed to the void.