as I’m on a bridge an hour
later,
two planes mark two black dots
on the red and blue magic
curtain
that is the april
sky of tonight.
that well-known nostalgia is back,
I’m comfortably sad, like I always
knew i’d be here
sooner or
later.
it’s over,
I’m soon home and
tomorrow morning marks the start
of another
new old week.

she moves with confidence
over the square-painted floor
asking questions under
green lamps from the 70s, hung low
above rough wooden tables.
secret eyes
glimmering behind glass and
black frames,
hurrying between the men
waving their bills
under sweaty shirts
and black suits

in single room appartments the boys peek wildly
down along the backs of the girls
from behind towers
of beer cans
rising from the floor.
cigarette buts glow passively in
the dark,
a young couple sobs in the street
with their
backs to a wall
as the cars go by in 180

this town is the craziest giant
boiling soup
all sounds lights directions
go everywhere
everyone is waving their arms
bang! splash! crash! whee! hoo!
what! i guess
no one really knows anything

i huddle with the night under
slides in the playground
eyes shut and hands pressed
to the ears
tremors from shrouded phantoms
out on the streets
make the cats
go wild
as children wail
under chairs
in the attics

pang
du hoppade till. blixten slog ner någonstans i himmelen ovanför.
dess efterdyningar lyser fortfarande upp tegelhusen
som gapar tomma längs gatan.

jag minns att jag blundade efter du satt punkt. ditt svar var
kort, rakt på, kristallklart. dess otydlighet ekar fortfarande
i mitt huvud.

att två människor kan känna varandra och annan andlighet
har aldrig varit någonting för mig, men jag kan tänka att
lära mig. var står det skrivet?
din blick lät du ligga kvar på asfalten,
“man vet bara.”

vi kommunicerade alltid i klichéer.
att förklara skulle ha tagit för lång tid.

wandering back and forth
between a tired bar and
the backs of the
smoking room
the subtle shadow
in the haze
shirt on,
nicely tucked in
the jeans,
shoelaces perfectly
tied,
from a corner peeking
out in the saturday night,
waiting there with
a nice
smile

what life is a life
spent sitting
listening to the sound of
each drop
hitting
the window frame

chat
chat
chat

no,
life is about
getting up
and
going out
in the rain

horror comes with the clouds of the grayest fog on monday morning,
never before such intense woefullness, looking up from this lonesome book
out of the window into a brick wall as my alarm clock shouts at me to
“drop it!” but i can’t and as the morning might suck life out of me like it
has sucked life out of the last shivering leaves of november hanging
there on their branches i bury the book deep in my closet and go
to work quickly—

the rows of houses look down on me real angry as usual but today more
persecutory or how one would liken their gaping dark eyes, constantly wide
awake and tortured by it’s crosses like jail bars, so i go to work quickly trying
to ignore the death that lurks deep in the depths of their black pupils—

finally there i am too exhausted to even think (and therein lies the boss’ liking
of me i realize now writing this) so i sit down and wait or something for 8 hours
straight until the clock hits 5 so i can run home in 3 and get the dinner made,
washing done, payments paid, kitchen cleaned, hell even my car cleaned before
eventually regenerating face-down in the sofa again like a corpse.

the afternoons are covered in a dark
gray haze that sinks into
the curtains, the meditative
buzz of flies fills the air in every room

i contemplate everything and
solve nothing - i put frames around
everyone i love - i wear my disguise
of an unworried boy

I want to see the president
wear a trash can on his head, the queen
in a swimming pool of juice
the icon of jesus an ass hanging right
above the altar from behind which mohammed
throws french fries all over his terrified
american audience
now that’s something I’d hang on my wall

enough of these intellectuals
thinking art, enough of their bullshit questioning
enough trying to explain passion,
do passion! do art! in the garbage! down the toilet!
among the cereals! behind the galleries! in front
of their noses! outside the city! inside his beard!
do art where you find it!
now! do!

take these words that seek into your mouth to flee
the mortal fragileness on which i’ve pinned them to
in despair, my heads bangs
against the wall

i am a navigator searching for that missing brain
wire, a mender trying to fix time,
i am a Dark Contemplative whose only product is
these false crooked figures spat out of the mind’s
imaginary coma. forever doomed dead
and buried,
forever untouched by your scarred iris

so take these words that seek into your mouth,
tongue, burning throat and ears and eyes,
that smell in your hall (remember?), hidden in that
white winter universe beneath the hatch (remember?),
things are soon to change. i am to go away
and come closer

that yellow brick facade has taken a year of
beatings and dried every tear
that fell in the beginning but not so much
now anymore
guess i am not being fair
then again i
guess my hands have always been red

a quick heartbeat sings into the night,
another year goes rhytmically
have you got anyone to touch on the knee? (i wonder
now reading old ginsberg and i am down in it again)
because as i guess this won’t leave me
anytime soon,
i hope i’ll come back with unblocked ears
to knock at your door
sometime.

so i am still here in this room with it’s walls
dripping with craziness. am i crazy? oh allen
what are you under the soil, the maggots in
your brain?
the heavenly tomb is corrupted, you are here
in my hand now to be kept alive a little while
longer but i think too much
of myself,
another self-absorbed poem from the pillow,
too strange too heavy so i throw it away
and let it drift and wither in the
winter breeze.
the steel benches along the sidewalks in the parks
are empty, where all the pigeons are i
don’t know
the painter i knew is gone—
am i the only one waiting to wake up
one night and leave this place
for good?

involuntarily

regretful

and

occasionally

ripped in two.

time flies
minutes hours days years lives
people i knew go away in
aeroplanes
while i spin my illuminated globe.

tonight i woke up with a

dream in my eyes

of the streets you drove and

crashed upon under the full moon

of the typewriter on whose keys

you wept in misery

of two red seats in two dark cinemas 

two aching heads tangled in

a cloudy sky

of a basement in new york, a

loft in paris, a heart across

the sea

while you are away i am away

and as you are dead

i am dead

too