Uncross your arms. So I
May access your heart.

Smile, so our kisses fit.
I fell in love with you laughing,

Now look for things to laugh
About; there are plenty.

Save your tears for the hard, solid
Tragedies. I'll cry with you. Then.

I earn your trust just by
Breathing; so honest is my

Loving you. Uncross your arms.
Return my embrace.

Walking on
Shards of
Mirror. I have a
Thousand clones
Sharing
My pain.

Such is
World. Humanity. And
Tragedy.

Holding on for
Dear life. To the
Thought of
Letting go.

In my eyes, an eye for another
Is fuel to the funeral pyre.
Yet my hands long to
Rip heart from chest;
The soul from the flesh,
And toss the rest on the fire.

Innocence, the least deserving
Victim. Cut, shot, burned alive.
Where is the real Heaven?
It sure as Hell hasn't pulled a
Trigger, or a blade
Across their lifelines, the
Little carriers of
The only actual holiness there is.

I have 132 child shaped
Holes in my heart.
How can I fill them with other than
Anger? Disbelief?

I don't care where you are from.
Your religion, philosophies.
There are no greater sins  
Than those against children.
No God, only demons and devils
Behind your hideous actions.
I want. To ****. You.
Does that make me 'no better'?

If so... I don't care.

The smallest coffins are
The heaviest.

May our shoulders hurt
For aeons.

It's like dancing with
Timber,* she laughs.
I'm done trying.

Lower my branches, move
Away from the floor,
One root at the time.

Body built for lifting and
Fighting, not moving with
Any sorts of grace.

I'll shelter her nests, protect
Her from angry weather.
Stand solid as a green mountain,

Watching her dance;
Leaving acts of beauty to beings of
Beauty. Like flowers. Snow falling.

My woman.

They say all the water on Earth
Has been drunk
At least
Once.

I guess it doesn't present itself
As a groundbreaking secret:
We're all just mainly
***.

Slivers of crimson sun pierce through
clouds that try but can't
hold back a single ray with the
illusionary shields of
themselves.

some bounce off the oil rainbow
puddles by the containers.
rust forcing its way through
flakes of green paint that

surrenders its grip on the metal
with every clank, thud, scrape and
unloving move by machine
operators and passers by with
tool belts and shouldered
sharpness.

beaten. broken. filled to the rim
with worthlessness.
I'm glad I'm not a container.

anymore.

Putting make-up on
the darkness.

A sad snapshot of a
thought: we
could have never

met. how close were
we?
to picture

life
without our
love;

opposite of
a
selfie.

To awake rested, yawn and
get up on the
completely right side
of the bed.

a full, healthy breakfast,
quality coffee.
good news headlining
the paper.

the smell of a bathroom after
a woman has spent time
getting ready for a
night out.

words of kindness from a friend.
such things I adore.
...but I love
poetry more.

a fully comprehensible manual.
a love letter post-it note,
or a book on something
hysterically interesting,

like psychology or history.
music of the kind that you welcome
sticking to your mind for a
whole day.

these things make my day for sure.
...but I love
poetry more.

her hands on me, warm with
sleep as she reaches over and
sighs between dreams.
yes. he's still here...

waking up with her hair in
my face, falling asleep on the
sofa with my head on her legs
the way a dog warms its owner's

feet with itself while resting.
not feeling like myself when
she's further away than the
next room.

hard to not shake
when she cries.
impossible not to laugh when
she laughs,

and to not want her
when she
wants me
to.

****. it's plain to see.
...I love her
more than poetry...

You breathe music.

there's poetry
between your every
uttered word.

you own every room you
enter.
all is a shrine in your

honour.

I see paintings in the shapes of
your blood veins; ocean universes
in your tears.

when you cry, there's no fight.
just whispered discontentment,
comfort is the opposite of

argument.

you beautiful, little beast.
claws constantly concealed.
I kiss your paws.

see right through you.
love
it

all.

I love my country side home.
firewood heat fighting the
gusts of winter wind
breaking through
timber
walls creaking with
the outside wanting
in.

still, the absence of your perfume,
freshly showered hair and
skin, smells like the emptiness I'd
feel alone, deep in the
bowels of
an enemy alien spacecraft
heading
home.

Now I notice
how your eyes burn
blowtorch-blue
when you look at love
looking back at you.

they could cut
through iron bars;
set free
the wish to settle down,
caged within men like me.

Their footprints are
deep from carrying
cannons to
gun-
fights.

Brother moon.
ruler of the clear
winter morning
sky, rubbing the tired from
my eyes on the way
from bed warm with
woman to
construction site cold with
concrete and
sharp with
coffe brewed by
callused
hands for effect rather than
enjoyment.

it's monday, brother moon.
but your ring of halo
reminds me
that christmas -its opposite-
is as close now as a
mother's heart
to her soft, sleeping
infant, upon entering its
bedroom
beneath your guarding,
gentle
gazes.

We arose from an afternoon nap
like two puppies at feeding time.
all ears and paws and wagging,
one climbing the other in eager
chaos to embrace and consume
friday night.

Outside it's snowing.
friday afternoon, construction
site more silent with every
worker welcoming weekend.

there's beauty in this.

gloved pats on dusty shoulders,
flakes of white like god's
dandruff on everything
else.

there's beauty in all of this.

I think of my woman's warm
lips against my cold cheek as I
enter. I will turn down beers
with the boys to feel them sooner,

and there is so much beauty in all
of this.

god is a zen buddhist with an
art degree.
I enter my office and wrestle off
my hi-vis coat, shake the drops from

my hard hat and hang it up.
kick my boots off against the wall
like an eight-year-old coming
home from school.

I could explain a workman's week
ending more poetically, but
life and weekends are both too short,
and there's so much ******* beauty

in all of this, and outside
it's snowing. outside it's
snowing like
hell.

Here. brush and palette.
paint us on the
walls of tomorrow's
universe.

bright colours, please.
I didn't walk this far
to darken.
paint us

smiling. laughing. content.
believing. no prayers on
knees; no coin wet with
wishing well water.

all we need is imagination
and faith.
bellies made for butterflies;
skin for tingling.

life is meant for risks.
we only live a thousand
times.
look.

this fantastic view shows
nothing unsoft. I didn't climb
this high not to
jump.

The sound of her voice when
she finally calls.
the sound of the night as it
giggles and falls.

the sight for these eyes that are
bloodshot and sore;  
the sight of her eyes, saying
lonely no more, that

hold me with gazes across
any space, that trace this old face,
holding smiles in their place.
the holding she does with her arms

as I drift into slumber and sleep,
can both cradle and lift any man's
manly heart needing comfort and
rest. they keep any secret and

stand any test. I am drunk on her
skin, I am high on her smell. I am
demon in Heaven, she's angel in
Hell.

now fallen has night, and it fell on
its head. its lack of awareness  
envelopes our bed.
drifting off first, as so often I do.

it's the day's final words:
-I love you.
-I love *you.

Torn was the fabric of our
painful pasts.

torn by shots fired from heart
to heart, ricocheting between

bruises and disappointments,
then wedging themselves between

ribs, to rest and incapsulate.
I run my asking fingers across

your entry wound.
we did this to ourselves.

torn to pieces, the drapes between
us and The Holiest of Heavens.

let us never cease fire.
empty your every clip;

beautiful, beautiful
bullets.

Steak dinner
perfectly cooked.
impeccable presentation.
one single bead of sweat
on her forehead.

boys, when done, get up
from the table
before her.
kiss her thank you
(make it a tradition).

clear the table.
pour her a glass and lead
her to the sofa.
leave the kitchen spotless
for her. every grain on the
cutting board;

one of her beads.
nothing is holier than one
that feeds another.
season gratitude with
effort.

it isn't rocket chivalry.
it should go
without
saying.

Gang ****. wars. famines.
iPad screen a shield between
news of death
and your life.

around, around, around we
go, tripping over molehills,
ignoring mountains where
diamonds and silver

lay as common as dirt
at the top.
this train is heading in painful
directions, but it would

tickle too much if we stop.
so we don't.
I won't give up my wi-fi
to save every child in a village

I've never even heard of.  
we all say it. inaudibly.
too many of us aboard,
but the water is lovely.

would someone -anyone- please,
please rock
this
boat.

Every line on my face
is one drawn between
myself and my
conscience, then
crossed.

Staring a hole in the
seat in front of me.
even the mornings are night
in winter,

so far from the summer nights
when the sun barely dips
below the
horizon.

finally a film of powder snow
with tire marks from
other busses whisper
Norwegian winter,

and a far deeper, crisper cold
will feel like breathing
crystal, only the hint of
firewood burning in

nearby houses lends homely
comfort to the smell of
nature against whom a layer of
clothes is the only armour

between a life lost and not.
cold fingers. nothing makes you
miss a woman like the scent of
her face; hair;

person
on
your
hands.

Construction project
King's st. 6.
Oslo.
14.00.*

A few humble grains of snow
melt upon
impact.

pavement. concrete. the air
between everything. they all  
blend together. then rest.

darkest time of the year.
I love it.
depression. suicide. some

fall victim to this absence
of daylight. their world is
not mine.

self pity and other heavinesses
vanish when opening ones
eyes to the beauty that resides

within even darkness.
I have clothes.
I have fire.

I have
love.
I have

more than
enough
light.

The skies hold back their
white gold for now.
ground kissed by frost;

everything hard and rigid
under tired feet.
I scrape ice from the

windshield without gloves.
who needs to feel their fingers
anyway?

it's as if every particle between
my face and the stratosphere
is still, not moving so as not

to attract the attention of the
coldness. I follow their example
and look up into the night sky.

stars so clear. so many. for a while
I wonder if some divine hand
has scraped the ice from

the window to
outer
space.

Dark were your
yesteryears, so
some corners of your warm
heart stay tainted still

I want to
rip the
black from your inner-
most

no matter how you

might bleed, curl it up
and throw it into the

abyss where the remains
of other pain-dragons slain

remain.

I wish this
-our first year-
would be the one where

you smiled the most
ever.

and the next.
and the next.

I can't wait to do
my best.

I have never experienced
such a strong
friendship
within a
relationship.

I love things you dislike about
yourself.
you are more beautiful to me
now than ever.

I watch your details.
discover something new about
your laugh daily.

angles, lighting, a line revealed,
a curve.

collecting every little imperfection,
seeing their whole as

perfection.

your voice soothes me.
your touch rebuilds my
confidence.

any movement you make now,
is dance.

I have so much left of
myself to see.
I hope you would like to go
find it with me.

I have so much growing
I know I must do.
I'm hoping you'd like me
to grow it with you.

I try to always lift on
the heaviest side.

I offer up the last
slice, last

spoonful, final
piece.

I call my mother
before she has to

call me. I've never driven an
automatic

in my
life.

She has those Scandinavian
blue eyes framed by a universe

of raven black hair.
she has that back-straight dancer's

walk that says
I'm heads taller than everyone.

she has that figure that makes men
nudge each other when walking

behind her, then stop when she
turns. just stop. and look.

she has that feeling of a woman who
knows she's the safest girl in

the world. *my man can stop the
planet's turning. can keep the sun

from rising. for
me.

While she's getting her
hair done, I'm in the
pub where the bartender-
lady is hung over,
playing Alanis Morissette
unplugged

and asking me without a word
not to speak to her

but listen quietly to
would you forgive me, love,  
if I danced in your shower,

and I'm more than happy to
sit at the bar with a pint of

lager and break radio silence
by whispering

got any Eva Cassidy?
as she looks up from her coke

and whispers back
*I could marry you. Yes.

She sleeps, so I treat myself to
Country Music Awards
and breakfast beer.

I know how to open every door
silently.

this is my
home.

I know the creak of every
floorboard,

every
not-to.

Cold streets. cold people.
cold city of Oslo.
snowless, as pre-Christmas
winters have become.

I wave back at kindergarten
toddlers smiling at the filthy
man with the green hard hat
emerging from the hole in

the brick wall, jackhammer
shouldered, dust like fog following.
sometimes my job is to ruin. there's
nothing "-ish" about "demolish".

friday fatigue.
arms rubber, hands cold; numb.
her voice is my coffee.
her words, diesel.

I wait for her call, hand on phone-
pocket, expecting movement any
time. I hope she'll call me soon.
I hope to God she'll call me soon.

I wish the rest of my life
was a long, long weekend.
I'd spend it with you.

Not saying I love you
this morning felt like
forgetting to take my
medicine.

Tears from hurt, then fear, then
lust, then contentment.
one sliding down the still
wet path of the other.

nothing changes like the
weather
within
woman.

I was a teenager.
a boy unshaven amongst
pimpled, insecure junior
high school brats.

I'd sit in the dark of my room,
hearing my father's smoker's
cough through the wall
under my Pantera.

long hair, biker boots, leather
coats and torn jeans was asking
to be excluded where I lived. oh,
I asked, begged, pleeded that

they would.
some did; most saw me as
a necessity they
compared themselves with

to assure themselves as normal.
mainstream. accepted.
at least I'm not freak like
Holter.

no. I built this confidence and
character alone.
that was my way to walk.
those were my teenage memories.

don't ever be afraid to get noticed.
it takes grit and
confidence; strong legs to
stand out. and stay there.

I stand in the centre of the
construction site. hearing
drilling,
jackhammering,
shouting,
and filling the gaps between
all these sounds:

the consistent thump of a
boom blaster
spitting and jumping as if
asking everything to
dance, rave with it.

I say a prayer to Ronnie
James Dio, and contemplate
the thin, thin line between
dubstep, and sitting -mouth
wide open- under an angry, insane
dentist.

I hammer will into wealth.
I harden principles,
sharpen my sense of
value.

wipe beads of sweat from
forehead and face, leaving
streaks of oil and blood upon
features

weathered by yesterday's
scolding self-loathing.
it took me nowhere.
gave me nothing.

I put chisel to the weld uniting
days past with those to come,
and divorce the need to
regret. to bang

my head against the wall of
who I once were.
the hurt I've dealt.
the stupid things a young man

can say under influence and not.
my whitest coals were the
trust I placed; the handle of my
hammer in the hands of

any authority seeming capable  
to swing it against an anvil
more often empty than not.
no more. not again.

I forge my own future.
breathing on hot coals, thrusting
raw metal into the red heart of
the fire.

this is my forgery.
I built it with my own two hands.
the only two
that may create within it.

Is the easiest thing.
I'd live forever
for you.

Breathe in my eyes
so I can lend tears to
your face.

I have nothing to cry
over, except that you
do.

Despite all my losses
never a loser

all the jokes; word games.
no clown

take all that I own
no poor man

****** palms, non-  
Messiah

I rest to strike
with greater force,

saving all my laughs
for last.

You visit me at work,
turning hard hats as you approach
the construction site fence.

the fact that they all know who
you are, is the only reason why
no one whistles.

I put down all my tools,
except that look that makes you
blush and cover my face

with your hand; a soft, sweet joke.
*don't look at me like that, boy.
you know what it does to me...