i almost can't believe that i write
my best poems,
  and then completely flip
****** with the cursor button
                  and ****!
              it's... gone...
   and i'm left with scraps...
            bits and pieces,
            sayings out of context,
    like:
           only rich boys get to play the
"chase" game women so romance
about... when i hear of "the chase"
coming out of a man's mouth,
   i start thinking, dude:
      enough of this david attenborough
****!
        ****, nothing noble can
ever come out of my mouth these
days,
          when you say: the druids
speak for the gods,
       i say the tongue of a poet
is owned by the people...
     i could have written this wild
poem about the myths of
the Faroese,
      i.e. the sea of ragnarök at Hvalba,
or the ones seeking wings,
               descending at Lønin;
watch enough lion's ***
  and i'm pretty sure it'll soon
     turn into a mouth of a monkey...
there's is nothing accidental
about this world,
    the rich boys get to play
the chase game, i.e. chase women...
the poor boys?
      just have to, ******* live
with them!
         i'm already "claustrophobic"
having a shadow...
         mind if i say that i like
those dark places:
       where the two of us meet?
there are places like that...
    pupils dilate,
        the shadow disappears...
        we, one and as one alone,
toss the autumn leaves into
a fire to abscond from perfumes
of decay...
          and then listen
to the meat heads...
          bashing, grizzly grinding
a chewing sound...
      and the tongue of man, became
the foetus, in the yet to take form,
within a woman's body...
     for man the coward,
then woman: the chandelier
         shackler...
               upon who's duty?
to play a game with women is one
thing...
          but to live with one?
                  i typescripted
the conversation between
dr. isak borg, marianne borg
   and dr. evald borg for ten or so minutes...
   and i found that:
after a while...
             this will never be
what i have already lost...
         and in that what i can only
gain is a similar answer
   we function to our own needs,
you have a **** need to live create life,
to which she replied: so what are your
needs?
           i need to be completely,
immovably... dead.
              as one might say:
for man the already apparent
burial...
        for woman, cremation,
and reincarnation...
           if women wear the veil,
or not...
           no woman is worth
being remembered...
         men ought to fertilise
the earth with a burial ground...
while women, to ease the pain
of not having either a lover
or a mourner stand by her grave:
be... cremated.