GENTLE

you’ll find better ways to die.
a snapped slit neck
by the hands of one you
thought to be a lover.
crushed jammed throat and
shattered pieces of your skull.
a nudge and side glance by a
set of eyes reserved for friendship.
no, child, chain those maddened thoughts of yours.
put them back where they belong.
you are too scattered and too in love with everything.
alas. who knew that would be the way you’d go?

BRUISE

twisted ankles broken bones.
men with sharp thick razor tongues.
I can breathe again but forgot to close my eyes.
blinding lights on pacing patterned streets.
familiarity. see what happens when you dare to stay behind?
you're a futurist studying the art of optimal illusions.
I'm no one in particular and I study your hands and
eyes and
lack of words.

reason on a limb again. too much headspace.

you better keep it on a damn tight leash. no one's a hero.
remember that you fool.

FRAGMENTS

here it is, the world you made.
white cold native land adrift beneath your eyes.
but you left your heart behind this time.
somewhere by the ocean,
a thick grey sky of winter damp and
narrow streets of carved crushed stone.
foreign tongues.
beating drums.
did you know they wrote a song about you?
a world within your grasp and someone’s heart between your fingers.
but you don’t care. trash their futile desperations.
their peasant minds and hearts of snow.
you can’t relate because you’re trapped within a world of forms.
an escapism to abstraction or whatever else your
mind decides to forge.
impostor.
false humility on a shallow drunk display.
but I only name–drop corpses.
Russians lost somewhere in exile,
a Frenchman pierced in bleeding shatters and
some German in a frantic panicked craze.
you know the one. a man whose words have turned to axioms
of which no one knows their source.
that’s one way to immortality, no?
not too shabby for a man who died in frenzy.

he didn’t ruin you
he made you interesting

WEEKEND

but then perhaps your words and sounds and songs are not enough. 
because your skin is still cold and your heart still broke from the 
mess he once created. 
blaming your discrepancies on whatever noise you call your duty 
but then the second you break free your mind will wreak havoc. 
as if nature wasn’t stronger than your reason? 
as if your men of books and state of posture could
save you from yourself? 
‘stay awhile, darling, just this once. I promise it won’t be long –’ 
you are too late. too late for this, late for that,
late for the love of your life. 
the week is gone. the hour struck and the moment passed. 
it is done. 
you god damn fool.

STOCKHOLM

but tripping lights don’t cure your angst. 
dampened inhibitions and
nights suppressed because you 
thought you had to prove your worth in waste. 
and now you’re done. you lock the door. 
seal your heart and forge your walls in concrete. 
you find a lover who looks at you like
maybe you are magic. 
you make her call before she visits.
hide your skin in black while hers lay bare. 
heaving ribs.
clenched white hands and
broken nails. 
heart bleeding something so strong they can smell it in the streets, 
taste it in the air,
watch it flow in rivers and stench your bedroom walls.

wash it off. 
lick your lips and air it out.
your veins may be drained but your heart still full, it hasn’t changed.
it never will.

so straighten up. clean your face and rinse your eyes,
open wide and listen up. you hear that?
your walls are false and hollowed but 
forceful wrecking not the way to go. patience.

thank you.
for everything.
always.

NORRLAND

the sky was clad in green tonight but no one cared to wonder.
dancing lights and starry skies on nights too long and blue. 

broken nails.
shallow breath.
shaking knees and 
thickened thoughts.

yet you feel nothing.
you sold your soul already,
auctioned out your heart and 
traded your body for a night of 
warmth and secret marvel.
but you still wake up before the break of dawn 
because your words don't stop just because your breathing does. 
but you don't write to combat sadness.
you write to conquer gloom. 
you write because your blood is drained because you 
hoped too much,
feared too little and gave 
too frequent. 

go back to sleep. 
perhaps tomorrow, 
he will change his mind.

FRIDAY

teary eyes from smoke–filled nights.
smoke–filled lungs.
frozen heart. 
twisted thoughts and 
crooked men.

how different were the days when you romanticised the forgotten. 
the faulty choice and loss of thought.
now you lace your drinks with sugar 
but the aftertaste of bitter still remains.
your judgments may be sounder 
but the sentiments don’t differ.
time supposed to make you wiser 
but the story hasn't changed.
and here is what you fail to understand:

you think the world gives a shit.

like your wars haven’t been fought already? 
like your moments of self–pity deserve their time in the limelight? 
like you should be granted pardon
for the words you never spoke,
the chances never taken,
the unsought worry and
childlike self–deceit. 
the universe a conspiracy turned against you,
justified by the stories you’ve been fed, 
the broken souls and
troubled artisans whose
powdered kitchen counters and 
wasted sticky liquor you suddenly admire.

you aren’t that important.
your privileged misery a 
deceit you tell yourself to feed your ego. 

you are flawed, that's what this is.
you are weak and a
child and there is 
nothing worthy in that. 

so get over yourself. 
and get to work.

COPENHAGEN

burn your skin on heartbreak.
scar your eyes with light and 
tattoo faith in your heart
so you always carry it along. 
you are right here and still breathing,
your soul pacing,
patient, 
heart beating and
hands making art and
don’t you for a second believe that is worth 
any less than the entire world.
a world where people are strange but no one’s a stranger, 
dancing with you over cobbled streets and make you 
sing,
sing,
sing.

so wish for love.
wish for highs, then wish it gone and
paint your arms red and your
soul golden.
open your eyes.
stare your restless face in the mirror. 
watch the sun, feel it burn and radiate
off your dark skin like those 
summer sunsets by the water.
don’t wish away your crooked past,
your stories are 
paper planes you made as a child in the south and
tonight you watch them fly, 
burn like fireflies on northern skies. 
lose it all then bet what remains on miracles.
breathe hard because you love,
gasp for air when you must but
don’t live on the oxygen alone.
go away at times –
but then return home.
sleep it off.
reality might be where your eyes refuse to see
because the light is too blinding. 
but reality is where the real people are.

and the real people might need you there with them.

 

SILVER

so then next time you slam your post–rock in your ears
on that train of drunkards after nights of selfish disappointments,
take the time and listen.
blast the noise and concentrate.
do this for me.
listen to the echoes between your ears and how it
vibrates within your skull and how its
ups and downs grow
louder like a chanting wolf climbing
mountains to the skies.
do that and now remind me of that thing you said about the sacred.
about your violent rejection of the holy and your
forceful need for curbing of the mad.
but this time do it with a straight blank face. this is the night,
this is its woes, this is what it does. and?

i didn’t think so.

STOCKHOLM
LAST WEEK
BLINDED

southbound streets and
cold cracked empty hands,
a piano–playing man of words within
a past too deep to swallow.

now fever dreams are keeping me at bay.
life on hold and anxious.
how beautiful it is, no?
how beautiful and
precious and
how easily demolished.
and you did.
of course you did.
what else did I expect.

“BUT WE ARE ROMANTICS, YOU AND I –”

and to grasp that in its depth is not a mere semantic.
let them speak of chaos all they want,
those pious ones,
pitied, 
pale in
place and
parlour. 
they will never know its meaning 
until cursed with hearts that do not grasp the world as it appears. 
space is not mere absence of material. not for poets nor the men of books. 
and until you understand that
you will never know of anything at all.

AND IF HE WANTS TO LEAVE,
THEN LET HIM LEAVE –

but your eyes are open, no?
they may be broken but they are open. 
heartbeats irregular but at least they are working. 
you can still love.
you can still feel love. 
wish it on the world and watch it
float beneath the sky. 
your crooked men have sticky faces,
soft white hands and loose black tees.
fickle minds in winter rain and 
worthless words on bloodstained sheets.

perhaps that was the point all along.
sacrificing yourself despite knowing it was fleeting. 
fleeing.
irrational and
irresponsible and
subject to abandonment at
any given day.

remember the banker with whom you spoke of poetry? 
your greatest friend a sea away. 
your childhood love you only meet with once a year. 
the recent one who shunned you.

BUT IF HE WANTS TO LEAVE
THEN LET HIM LEAVE

thank you. for existing on this earth at the same time as me. 
for all it’s worth.

SUNDAY

and promise me this: 
don’t make his mistakes. 
then one day, perhaps, 
you’ll know the type of living
that means deliverance from
whatever past you call your self. 
and you’ll learn the breathing that comes 
from calling someone a home 
that isn’t tainted by despair.

UNDER BRON

the universe is music. or is it the other way around? 
cinematic heaving beats and echoed strikes to beating heart.
it doesn't matter.
it never did. 
petty disputes fade like
bruised blue skin because the world is
grander than that,
the city larger and the
person more complex. 

so you forgive. 

and then the curtain falls and the
sun goes down and the
rain fall blue beneath the clouds below you.
same old beats conjure scenes in your mind
and you return to where it all left off. 
”listen to your dreams and they will tell you your desires” –
who said that?
I don't remember. 
I breathe because I write but
words are too concise and
this is not. 

patience. 

remember what he taught you?
lightly, child, lightly. 
think lightly, act lightly, feel lightly.
yes, feel lightly, 
even though time has got you warped and strangled and it's 
weighing on your sunken chest. 

patience. 

it's winter soon and then it's over. 

lightly
lightly
lightly.

TOKYO

bloodshot
steam–red
punk love. 

a minute's held clenched breath and
hidden secrets under bare white skin. 

you're young until you're not and you 
breathe until you don't and you 
love until you can’t.

but you knew this.
you always did, you just needed a reminder.

so thank you.
for that, and everything else.

I hope you never think of anything
as much as I think of you.

NORTH

Friday night wandering eyes. 
buzzcut haircut drunken voices,
rock band tees and 
soft blue noise. 

it is minus fifteen and your windows leak freezing air
into the only space you worship. 
bleeding white hands and stiffened dry tongue. 
so you lay in bed with your coat still on because the 
extra layer makes your body less fragile. 
hug your aching feet and
close your cloudy eyes. 
short tense breath to invisible heartbeats.

the skin is the largest organ of the body but yours doesn’t keep you warm. 
your mind the most refined but it doesn’t keep you calm.

it doesn’t matter, though.
not tonight.

you never did know how to let things go. 
but you both knew that all along.

CHILD

I find pieces of the molecular world
stuck underneath my thermos. 
they are sticky like glue.
sticky shoes. 
sticky like your rubber soles on the 
asphalt on a hot summer day. 
sticky like your breath on that
cold fall afternoon and 
sticky like your body on mine
that night in November.

let this be a lesson in self preservation. 
don't leave your heart and 
soul and 
sticky body
unclaimed for.