rasmus-hammarbergWhisper

Swedish

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Mother Said ***** ******** and Threw Me a Name TagI’m a running kind of guy / Hopping through Bombay smoke with an open palm grasping / every cloud with my fingertips gripping

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Jar of PainI heard you cry dear brother. / I heard you cry and wanted to drink your tears and let the pain into my body. / I wanted your anguish to rush through my veins like the French mob never letting the wealthy sleep well, like lions around the prancing gazelles

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Carnivale - Find ItWhen in Charleston you / eat fried pickles / drink cheap and

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A Sacrifice Dressed in FeathersA bluebird hovers above rifles / raised in memory of people dying, clasping the cold edges of guns in the absence of their mothers' love. / Cheers ring out for survivors having embraced their triggers hard enough to keep breathing

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I Made Soup From the Horns of a UnicornDreams are polka dotted at Walmart they say. / And though this is true they do not taste sweet but / Acidic like those

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998

ChirophobiaTo my unborn son - I can imagine what your palms would look like covering my eyes from seeing past the wonders written in their lines / I can imagine how your fingers would tangle around my thumb silently wiping tears from under your fingernails after they've caressed my cheekbones. / How your toothless mouth would form a smile for every birthday you'd ever awaken

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The Wickedness of the TongueAs his eyes bled the pain from out his ribs, cracked by my words harsher than the wind biting his wet cheeks, I smiled at the image of my face reflected in his tears. / As he walked away, his feet scraped the gutter as the knife still in between his bones, left to rest until his mother's warmth has melted the steel, her spirit embosomed it with millions of breaths reviving his flesh. / I watched him go, my body shivering as my mouth preparing chants of scorns meant to burn every broken heart passing by my wicked tongue Glowing, glowing as the God it believed it had become.

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Where Love is but a NameI'm a running kind of guy / Hopping through cigarette smoke with an open heart / Grasping every cloud with my fingertips

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901

New YorkNew york is a **** a man once told me. / First you see beauty glittering in might / your heart beating in the arms of the moon.

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A Burning ButterflyImagine a butterfly, gracefully letting the wind brush its wings as they reflect the sunshine caressing their gleaming purity, / stroking the empyrean / with their

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