Ah, this meditative combination
Of balcony summer, drinks and
Poetry.
Oh, this carefree state of mindfull
Bliss; breathing tickles.
Poetry
Was never so absolute; park trees,

City summer, green lungs of
Oslo full of air.
Seeing the bushes by the railroad,
Pieces of nature
Peeping through
The cracks of civilization, taking
Control of city people's hearts.

Flowers dancing shamelessly
*******, swaying in breezes of the
Kind that picks up the heat from
Sunshine-warm streets and
Hugs you with it;
Rubs it all over you
Like a lap dancing angel.

Ah, to live is to meditate.
Late summer, August ablaze.
Weekend era; aeon of freedom.
As at home as any
Norwegian in
Norway. All I try to do ends
Up in laughter.

I write fiction because I realized
from a young age that
I was a splendid liar,
with these pretty little lies
I ******* all nice and tight.
Slowly they became bigger
as I became bigger
and they became ugly
as I became ugly,
and still they came,
with more momentum now.
They grew thorns, hurting the
people who believed them.
I put them on the paper
so they could look beautiful
again.
Still they were false.
Still they sat in my gut
like an unwanted child,
a weight I couldn't help
but carry.
So here, another lie
for me to tie.
See, see how pretty it is?

we are strangers
yet our lives are
woven by poetry

Enemy training, one, two three
Is notable for its simplicity.
You just arm yourself thoroughly
And shoot people with alacrity.
Don’t worry about being wrong
Or whether an action is right.
That they don’t want you to shoot
Is enough to start the fight.

Please take this as truth
That this is how it is done
If you see someone as enemy
You cease to see a human.
The fact that they are armed
And don’t like who you like
Is enough to create words like
****, ****, ****** and ****.

Enemy training, one, two three
Is notable for its simplicity.
You just arm yourself thoroughly
And shoot people with alacrity.

Line up the opposition forces
Against a bullet-riddled wall
And shoot them many times
And see how many will fall.
The ones who do not die
Must be minions of the devil.
They are the enemy, you see.
That’s all. That’s on the level.

Don’t worry about being wrong
Or whether an action is right.
That they don’t want you to shoot
Is enough to start the fight.

And those people that don’t
Believe in your own form of Jesus,
Like Aerabbs and Jews and such,
Shoot them as much as it pleases.
Because they won’t go to heaven,
And are just heathens anyway
Like them Buddhist dingdongs
Like them ****** lesbians and gays.

Enemy training, one, two three
Is notable for its simplicity.
You just arm yourself thoroughly
And shoot people with alacrity.

And people in foreign countries
Well, you can guess how that goes;
Take a look and easily compare
Canadanians to them from Mexico.
The French are Frogs, Spanish spics.
None as good as us Americans.
And nothing good can come out
Of any **** place that is African.

Don’t worry about being wrong
Or whether an action is right.
That they don’t want you to shoot
Is enough to start the fight.

Now if you find some of this offensive
And if this is revving up your motors,
Just bear in mind, this is what goes on
In the mind of the average voter.
Want to change this, make life better?
Drop your representatives a letter.
Tell them you are on to their villainy
And see them as supporting the REAL enemy.

I drink in order to write
and, often times,
I write to be able to to drink
without the fallout
that surely would
accompany it
otherwise.

There is a madness,
an itch in the back of the throat,
hoarse from screaming,
broken now and caught
on the knowledge
that no one has heard,
let alone understood,
again and again and…