Poem - 9.
Text is the largest number.
No other is like it.
Poem can feed your children.
It saturates the being of the condemned.
It is the lard of the starving;
the pain of salvation;
the undying word of the singular prophets.
The single watching from afar.
The afar watching the close-at-heart.
No other being is recycled;
Lives through the ages,
like the genome of perfection.
Man is the poetry of god.
Although god may be dead,
we; live through the words.
Creating the world to our pleasure
Leaving only the breath of leaves
to carry the complexion of freedom
The need is freedom from words
Freedom from the overpowering
will of the others like it.
Moria, untriffled line of site.
Should I send them a piece to publish?
What do you think? Are you me?
Maybe I shpuld write something first.
Can´t help falling sometimes.
Now for a clean couple of days - Just vodka and grass, no beer
or red wine.
I´ll come out a newborn; look at me dancing.
Poem - 8.
the days are outnumbered
we are outnumbered
alone in the universe
water among the stars
floating in the evergreen sludge
the mass of weight
continents on fire
the cities on fire
the soul is outnumbered
one on one
stop counting
Readicule. Poem - 7?
Death wishes to comb your whiskers
Petals of surfacing nakedness
None is there to pluck the pluming
Dishes unwashed in the face of my
in the back of my, on the back of me
Replenishing the bacon of mankind
Retyping - 6.
I remember something about the sum of man
Then I got drunk with three Finnish fishermen
The wind trowing about in my car, on the high road,
the circular -line- road outlining the Desperate city
Pulling poetry from my hands
and out into the freshness of spoiled air of Industry
Long gone is the fruits of my loins
the grape of wrath, becoming wine in my hands
"I crush your head"
Or now-what? I can´t remember
not for the life of me, I´m drunk
I pass out on the couch of oblivion
Caretake for me; my sleeping eternal poetry
Poem - 5.
Secure all hatches and bolts
the body is my temple
Green is the grass of Gunter;
the lawn of impeccable power
Seed is the flesh of worms
allow me the quote:
... all decaying matter as everything else.
The grand gesture of oppression,
- You are a sinner!
it is long gone, the only sin is restriction - The prophet says
God is listening
The God of gag is speaking in tongues, splitting his words
As the followers write their names in the sand, as the
all-flowing ocean rips it apart
as do love
the love of man
as do the escape-goat of dualism
No I´m not paying attention
I´m not paying for anything
unPoem - 4
I woke up this evening-morning
painting the skies in the colour of death defiance:
The pure laughter of decadence
as the North-ridden saddles the spine
What I mean is: it´s as bold as heart can be
Only, only the pass-timer has me by the face
I stop by the melodie, the swing of paint
too watch them play, the innocents of slumbering nightfall,
the hearts of mushroom cloud,
the double-shot of eyes at me
the cup of mescaline is drained, is the last evering drop
now, ride the lightning, take yer fill of...
the words disappear, became spots on the snakes of love
You fire up! I fire up.
This is the undying
the drain of the wick we unfold
in the pocket of siamese-flats of unpaid rents
of freedom of choice of "do not panic"
Come lover
open up your lingering insides
We will Fall
We will be a Spring
We will Summer last night
No Winter in sight
No blight, just light
Oslo with the lad.
Jag och min vän Harry Porter har åkt till Oslo
och dricker starköl.
Inga jävla ungar sjunger på Karl-Johann
den saken är klar.
Poem - 3
The hammerfall of bottled whisky strikes me in titanical proportions
I haiku of indreamed brothers of dead meat lettering the pages of unspoken
wisdom granted from the stately manure-factory of Universe-city
This, is the chemicalswept smell of nooses, the grammar of revolver
Dread; the life of sipping champagne from the insolete boot of the oppressor
Mind is freedom, is fields of neverendings - Revisiting the cell of tank
War is declared on my belts and shoelace, but it´s not lace
It´s the half rotting carnival of wrong turn, red light and District
Now I ease against the perculiarism of metrics, half-brothering with I
Now I sleep the concrete of undying
and wait the wake of dreaming education
Poem - 2.
it´s the city of decapitalization
seahags and dark backdoors @ norrebro harbour
I´m dreaming, no none, it´s lost to me
- You lie!
I´m the everlasting union of movement
the fucking is continuous decapitation
inside the embodiment of unknown first names
Parking is too expensive, it´s carpet alleys
pondering of rare manekins on the roadhouse of drunken mascara
The street pushes me
I´s the pure, unwatered, size-of-the-thing
hiding in open fields and the starstruck eyes of education
I see -
the bourgeois deathmachine needed its fuel, so
I uniform a broken teacup of mushroom backroom
and lever to the shimmer of satin stained
typing this poem
Poem - 1
these poems where written on a Singer typewriter
they are cloths in the fabric of the Multiverse
they where typed on the 28:th and 1/4 th of February
on a moonlit day, waiting for a night of may
I was alone, dragging the carcass of Saab
like methadrenaline trough the veins of Suburbia
the grass-pricked, former highway of Desolate City
reststopping only for typing madness, Hamilton/Afghan
and Tuborg roadsigns
Leaving behind the suffocation of the mouthwatering diarrhea,
of the filling of holes, of staggering deathproof and mundane,
the breaking of waves and the promise of grandeur deflated
a drunk beatnik is a good beatnik
Jag dricker rödpang och har en noppig outfit av nopp på mig i afton.
Join the revolution!
