These days, I often imagine myself
Lying in my bed, dead.
With nothing but the "Little black book"
On the table beside me-
-a rather non toxic version of me.
A sculpture once hot,
A painting once wet.
The "Little black book" written with a black ink
(except one little bluestar).
A sculpture now cool,
A painting now dry.
Finally - matured, ripe and stonelike.
Ready to be exposed to the people:
Family, friends, loved ones, strangers.
Chaos to words.
A cooled down notebook.

I have precious things to give,
Conversations and memories
that dwell in the future.
I want them to be
Taken as a gift
Before I leave.
And want to be remembered
With a kind word
a smile, and a warm thought.

Could it be, that we have to
feast in hurry,
And that the lake is
Frozen?

Clumsy, shy hard metal brain.
Anyway, I'm not worried,
And I have lots of good feelings.

Need of being appreciated, and liked and loved
Is the most destructive feeling in my life.
I'm glad I can shape myself with writing.

Decapitated sunflowers
-a sharp line, where summer ends

A thousand memories bursting in mind
Old paths
        A pine, wind, balcoon
        Water, bike and towel, (hot soft wind, shade)
   Wood's structure and a car ride in the morning

A grasshopper, august dim-cold(yet warm) day
Languid,
                                heavy,
               slow
A tattered blotter on my tongue
    Sweat, tree bark and cycling
         A pipe, movie & then sleep & bus travel
                      And we're back where we started

Jump on the train
      leave the town
               run away

I have a fear that
one day I'll awake
with a psychic shell
around my mind;
a snake's creation-
-he crawled under my pillow
               during a drunken night.
                             I woke up with a beard.

I have a fear of
unconsciousness taking the wheel.
Time is a strange thing.
       See the Clock's metal wounds
   Watch the hours bleed out.
We won.
                                             Did we?


Time will tell.








O, Love that moves the sun in Heaven,
and all the stars, can you mend us?

Snow-white birds fly through
clear crisp blue sky.
White pure city in a distance,
on the other side
of dark blue cold river.
Thin sharp power lines of steel,
a plane

         Lying in a hole,
         wet clods of dirt
         and dense mud
         with metal junk(?),
         feces(?)
         Sensation of heaviness.

Sirens moaning, Bach's adorning,
What a waste,
Will we ever be granted the help
                we deserve?
Rain falls calmly on the city,
           Fragile candles dying.
What a waste.
     What a waste it is! I quit,
                                      Farewell.