http://observationsatnight.tumblr.com/

bus notes

Sun, 21 Apr 2013 17:04:35 -0400

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.

fish tank

Sat, 06 Apr 2013 13:15:14 -0400

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

bland tegelhus någon gång

Mon, 01 Apr 2013 18:25:00 -0400

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.

introspective

Sat, 23 Feb 2013 21:26:46 -0500

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

go out in the rain

Sun, 03 Feb 2013 16:18:20 -0500

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

to go to work

Sun, 27 Jan 2013 18:54:00 -0500

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.

untitled

Sun, 27 Jan 2013 18:34:58 -0500

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

do

Sat, 19 Jan 2013 12:49:07 -0500

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!

contemplations

Sun, 16 Dec 2012 10:06:00 -0500

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.

Small poem

Thu, 29 Nov 2012 19:19:26 -0500

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?

as time goes by

Tue, 27 Nov 2012 10:55:19 -0500

involuntarily

regretful

and

occasionally

ripped in two.

"No matter what the money men have said to you you are the only god."

Sat, 24 Nov 2012 08:30:27 -0500

““No matter what the money men have said to you
you are the only god.””

- WU LYF (RIP)

aeroplane

Sun, 11 Nov 2012 19:06:04 -0500

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

split poem

Sun, 11 Nov 2012 18:33:10 -0500

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

petterberg.tumblr.com - new photo only blog.

Sat, 03 Nov 2012 02:55:24 -0400

To wither

Mon, 15 Oct 2012 17:08:55 -0400

The clouds are dark tonight, Paris,
as i contemplate you from two thousand
miles away. what colour your eyes? have the spirits
finally fled your yellow photographs?
will i come to see you buried under a million frozen
vegetable plastic bags beneath a perfect
sky of luminous tubes?
i have read much, heard much,
and most of it turns out to be false.
most of myself,
most of the time,
too.

I have come to realize, Paris, i don’t want you
don’t want anything
but i’m dreaming of it all.
where you are i don’t know. as for me,
i can see myself sitting on that dusty shelf
where my notebook lies unused now at night
waiting for someone better
to come along.

Escapism

Thu, 27 Sep 2012 15:03:28 -0400

Wild shouts over the roofs!
cigarette smoke pollutes voluntary minds and
finds its way into the pores of even the asphalt
in the most dark forgotten city!
solitude creeps the streets,
feasting on the anxiety offered to him by
the futureless self-enslaved young from under their
blankets in self-disgust!
   Wild shouts over the roofs!
clattering clattering clattering sounds bounces from
side to side, wall to wall! running in backalleys,
hopelessly holding on to temporary happiness
by the bottle!
   Wild shouts over the roofs! dreams of escapism
guiltily trapped somewhere in the bottom of guts!
forever waiting in dirty appartments for plane
tickets to come!
   Wild shouts over the roofs!
pretended contendedness! drenched sadness!
cries from the shopping malls!
   Wild shouts! whose head is lost in whose hands?
whose self-belief in whose bottleneck?
   Over the roof! in cages! wild shouts
from the back of tax papers! crazily looking into
the eyes of bureaucrazy!
   Roofs! dreams! shoulds! can’ts!
write your time!
madness!
madness!
madness!

Small towns

Wed, 19 Sep 2012 15:22:00 -0400

the window of my room
is open, covered in
september’s night dew
sighs from
the girl in the reception
finds its way inside
as she prepares for
another new day—
such is the morning
here, so
overwhelmingly
woeful
gripping tight around
the hearts of the inhabitants—
i am talked to by
whitewashed
walls.

painful
minutes pass
i am too scared to open
my eyes
aren’t we all
anyway?
a river
whispers
incomprehensively
from outside
hopelessly
bound in its
circularity
like me.

On poetry

Wed, 19 Sep 2012 03:38:00 -0400

Bad poetry comes from broken hearts,
good from great minds, but the best
somehow from those who are either
too crazy,
too eccentric,
or too stupid
to use theirs.

Molds and masks

Thu, 13 Sep 2012 15:12:00 -0400

i’d rather read books than
these absurd brochures of
happiness
stuffed down my mailbox
even the postman himself
is depressed.

i don’t want no appartment
to be fixated in, no luxurious
possessions
my back couldn’t carry it anyway
don’t want to go away for a year
and return punctually to finally become
something to the great delight of grandmother.

this interest is
all forced
all false
all for show
sorry
to disappoint—
i can’t live for you
can’t live for me either
for that matter.