Let's stop putting the label Bad
On our delicate little planet.
Yes, she has ugly skin on parts of

Her continents. Some sour rain,
Some rash from her seven billion fleas.
But she deserves more.

Yes, so perhaps she's only one blue
Eye on the face of the solar system.
A shivering cyclops

Afraid to meet the gazes of duality,
Yet standing tall against
The Jupiters and Red Giants

Of the immediate Universe.
But there, in the black eclipse-dot
Of her iris,

A smoker quits
For the sake of his children,
And I see what it costs.

So I recline, eyes closed,  
In the warmth of a cigarette ****
Crushed under a heel

In its lastness; a little, empty
Crucifix -now a cross-
That reminds me that the sacrifice  

That any non-smoker (not an ex-
Smoker) would never understand,
Comes from the same place as

Those things that make us stop and
Wonder at the selflessness that
Makes Earth

Not a victim orb of crap, but a spaceship
Where angels hike on their time off
Just to experience

The factors of Humanity
That make us stop putting **** in
ourselves, and start loving.

Right now she's one hour's
Drive south of where I
Miss her from.

Stepping out of the shower
Just about now, perhaps
Catching my scent

On her towel and cursing
Me through a wet smile for
Always grabbing the first one

I see. She'll look in the mirror
And remember that time I
Walked in and stood behind

Her, brushing strands of black
Away from the back of her
Neck; making room for my

Mouth to render it nearly
Impossible to dry herself with
Eyes narrowing; closing, her

Towel already wet from the
Shower I had taken
Earlier.

No matter how dark the bedroom,
I can always see your eyes
Seeing mine.

Sometimes your hands follow;
Find my face or other
Skin.

Mine may reply, reach to
Feel, draw to kiss.
And there is fire in this.

No matter how dark the day.
Clouds heavy with rain promising
Thunder:  

A child with a toy on the floor,
Undaunted; preoccupied,
Leaving worry to us grown-ups

Gathering pillows from balconies;
Seeing a storm as more than it is.
There is fire in this.

I've held shaking hands over a
Keyboard wet with tears, trying,
Trying to put words

On the burning within; the
Heart broken and rebroken
Until it needed

Stitches and staples
To hold together, finally
Finding faint flickering flames

Deep within the darkest darkness
Of that abyss. Whispering relieved:

*There is fire in this...

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.

If I could string my every thought of
Selflessness together, they wouldn't even
Reach from one cell of mine to
The other.

All I do is for me.
I have abandoned the thought that
Hate pulls the Universe apart.
Fear does.

Fear that someone will see us
As the selfish little souls we are.
All the good you do is for yourself.
So do it.

Feeling good about  
Smiling at a stranger or leaving
Change in that ******'s cup
(Mostly because it's Christmas, or

Spring, or whatever),
Does not make the act worthless.
Embrace your humanity.
It's ok to be selfish.

So what if you'll never be
Mother Teresa?
You know; she might have been
No better than you.

She just did it all anyway.
Eat, drink, breathe, serve.
A saint feeling good about being
A saint, is no less one than another.

It's time for a break.
I bring my cup of coffee
Outside.

Drizzles of rain land in
The black fluid, stirring  
The steam that smells of

Warmer sensations than
Those of being drenched and
Rained upon outside a

Construction site. Sip and
Swallow. Repeat. I let the
Screensaver of my mind set

In; gazing at the space between
Things, thinking nothing.
Sip and swallow. The cup

Warms my hand. The coffee my
Throat. Then, a single thought
Warms my chest.

The way her bathroom smells
Of the products she uses.
The way she likes her showers

Hot -so I learn to enjoy them too.
I was always turning the heat
Down, until it got unbearable.

Then stayed a little longer.
Shocking myself awake.
Misconceiving pain as a tool.

I like it comfortable now.
Soft alarms in the morning.
Clothes with room rather than

Slim cuts and tight chests.
A woman that never once walked
A catwalk, but who likes to

Stroke my back softly until I
Fade away between winter covers
That smell of her skin and sleep.

Sip and swallow. I empty the cup
And listen to the rain -heavier
Now- hit my hard hat

Like a thousand fairy drummers.
The break is over. Workday isn't.
I have dry clothes in my office.

I'm having a
Very good
Day.

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.

Third degree lessons learned
Leaving a scar the size
Of its beholder.

Without skin between
Nerves and world
Even softest kisses from love in love

With love are pure agony.
No tear runs cold enough
To be soothing.

Hey, what have we here?
For me? What did you draw?  
A little dream?
That's really nice.

I love the way you have coloured  
In the lines that connect the
Hearts of friends you
Have yet

To make, to your own.
They may still be stick
Figures, but I sure
Get the idea.

Can I really keep this?
I'll put it on my fridge, so I
Can see it every day.
Thank you, sweet little teacher.

(n) the pleasant, earthy
smell after rain.*

I run the palms of my soul over
Spring's yawning breeze.
It leaves its scent on everything.

Pavement dark with drops of what
Would have been snow
Only weeks ago.

I breathe until my lungs hurt,
And exhale smiling.
Clouds black as midnight withdraw

To reveal a crimson sundown
Forcing orange upon foliage;
Warming every leaf cradled drop

Until they're vapour.
Now that the ice
And snow are gone,

I giggle, and step on every
****** crack I
Can find.

Alone at night in the oldest parts of this
Centuries old farmhouse.
          At times the hairs on my arms stand up.
          Goosebumps, no...moosebumps as they pass
As only slightly more than shadows.

A part of me could produce bricks.
But I speak.
          Come out; it's fine. Sit down with me
            Tell me stories from yesterlife.
First hand history lessons. I've seen the faded photos, now
Describe it in colour.

I want scents and sounds, give me secrets in detail.
Come sit with me, hang with me. Please.
             Works every time.
             Nobody likes a ****-up.

Gods, gods, gods.
Let them fight their own battles,
Shed their godblood upon the
Space between the in-betweens
While us mere mortals play
In peace
On Terra Firma.

The crimson linings of the clouds
That shield Heaven from our
Prayers drip drops that leave
Stains in the shape of our children
On battleground surfaces.
The bullets they bite won't fill
Their bellies.

Winter trees in deep sleep under
A thin film of ice; the broken
Water of Winter.
Soon all is white; crystals floating
On the wind between the worlds;
Leaving this one prestine and
Pure, like infant prayer,

Only to arrive at another and be
Stained with war-steel and
The tears of the dying.
Gods with egos:
I fear them more than
A million
Angry men.

I'll dance, but only to the rhythm
Of a true pulse.

The most interesting souls I've
Met were the ones least

Interested in being seen as
One.

I have the nose of a poet; can
Smell fakeness from a

Heartbeat
Away.

Children lie.
The rest don't even care to.

Subterranean; flowing like a constant river,
Covered in metres of memes, and hidden.

A man's tears.
Waterfalls falling behind walls of mountain's flesh.
Poetry in forbidden books piled high and burned

By censorist historians.

You pick a scortched piece of page from my footprint,
Blow on it faintly; as if dust off of leaf gold,

And read, when you think I'm not
Watching.

Don't worry, your mind is beautiful.
We all curse at the pulling of insecure
Splinters from the soft skin of our
Self-esteem.

We bark at what makes us feel
Weak; lesser. Under some sort of attack,
Though the attacks are far, far too often
Imagined.

I too fear at times the anger and unkind
Wishes I may instinctively draw upon others.
Hell, the ugliest things I've ever seen  
Were with my eyes closed.  

Don't worry, your mind is beautiful;
At its purest when you catch yourself.
And put a wrong thought
Right.

We move together like
Pieces on a chess board
Dancing a symphony in black and
White minor

Two legs; lungs breathing
Simultaneously

Filling each other in; waves in
Syncronicity; hanging things
Swinging in
Sympathy

With the ship

The sun doesn't give a ray
Whether you feel like light or not.
Things need to grow.
To dry. To tan.

And you're just a man.
Your heart is a pebble.  

Darkness comes, but never stays.
These are also days.

The moon doesn't give a beam
Whether you rest with a teary face.
Tides need to rise.
Moth chase. In vain.

The same to them, your pain.
Your heart is a pebble.

The world spins in her own ways.
These are also days.

These are all days,
Yesterdays are frozen in time and
Recorded forever.
To live. To be.

To get to walk around as me.
With a pebble heart.

Another true adventure stays
A part of Life and all Her ways.
I've kissed her mouth,
I've touched her face.
Those were also days.

Do you speak to yourself
With respect?
Thinking back on words
Fit for retraction, do you call
Yourself idiot? "Why didn't
You just shut up? Stupid,
Stupid, stupid!"

Spitting foot flavour
On your own shadow, leaving
Bile, regret and self-loathing on
The walls and floor
Of your headroom.

"You always mess up.
Why will you never learn?"

Forgive yourself. How would
Another feel if spoken to
With such hostility?
Day after day.
Minute after minute.
We talk down to ourselves
Like invisible
Evil twins.

Be nice to yourself, even within
Your innermost of monologues.
Be nice.
Watch your mouth.
Don't talk like that
To my friend.

An end for every beginning.
The price of being; to one day
Not. Still some eat their cake
To keep it.

I have been more mis- than
Understood in my life.
I speak in symbols, meta-thoughts.
Poetry is

Not for the ones who imagine
Grudges so they have something to
Hold. All I know is that this ****
Plane will

Refuse to go down with us in it.
If it stops, it stays up here
Until we make up our minds to
Land and keep loving. Or jump.

In the vault of my innermost,
Shelves shelf letters.
Some rhyme.

I'll never send you an email.
I'd rather cry into a rust red leaf
Held before your face to

Not kiss.
Winter is coming; Death approaching,
Carrying Life in

Her arms like a
Newborn
Cliché.

So we didn't ****
Ourselves this time
Either.

And yet again I find myself
Feeling that things were
As good as they could.

Then.  



Thunder.

I smile; whisper
Perfect.

First day this year with sun.
Real sun. Summer sun. I; on the
Warm doorstep. The Night Torn Mad With Footsteps on my lap.

Contemplating shaving just to feel
Closer to the heat.
Scent of garden, fields, gravel road
And the eccos of generations
Feeling the same sheer happiness
Over weather.

Silence but the birds and a distant tractor.

The barn wall opening where the
Collapsed part protruded
Is partly covered with the ripped remains of a tarp-
Storm ridden unremorsefully
Weathered and waving gently still
The sad thin skin of itself in
Soothing winds.
A close-up of waves.
A poem of little tzunamies.

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.

I give her the blueprints to
My Death Star, and reaching
The core of my love is as easy
As bulls-eying womp rats in
Her T-16 back home; not much
More than two metres
From my heart.

Her eyes are the exact shade of
Force that an Ilum Crystal
Powering a light sabre
Emits when ignited,
And her hands can choke a
Weak man from a hundred
Imperial Standard Yards

Away. She's Leia to my Solo,
And the Vader tattoo on the
Back of her leg
Stares at me when she tip-toes
Past me, shower fresh and
Towel-less, inviting me over
To the Dark Side

Of sci-fi, *** and rock'n roll,
And I know from the
Bottom of my everything of
Everythings that she is
Indeed the *******
Droid I've been
Looking for.

I dream of not being.
of fading, reduced to gratitude
for all that flowed, floated,
glimmered and shone.
then unbecome.

every day a dream.
every night aware of
daybreak unafraid.
we must all awake into
the othernesses

of belonging.
let the last grain of my person
be lifted on a wind so gentle
it carries; holds with
nothing but care,

and know with the last of
what once was heart, that to
love and thank was all I was
supposed to do.
if so, I did very, very well..

I just jumped on my
Bed for the first time
In 25
Years

In time she'll stop looking back
With bitterness at all the
Boys that ate the frosting and
Ignored the layers of cake;
Substance and endless surprises.

In a nightmare
I wake up next to an angel.
Wings as white as
Midsummer day clouds

Reaching all horizons,  
Rendering us
Centre of all.

Face; that of pure
Unconditonal love.
Warmth like a mother's
Arms shaped around
Own infant
Vulnerability.

I cry out, then inhale
In comfort, opening my
Eyes to reality's relief;
It is you there,

After all.

Six full chambers
Lined up in front of me.

Suicide roulette with
All fingers on triggers.

One shot in each foot.
One through each palm

(Like some self-proclaimed
Saviour's stigmata).

Double-tap to the chest;  
I need my brain intact

To form poems
As it all goes up

In flames, like a Buddhist
Munk in protest.

Watching her fingers fly over
Keys and mouse, pausing
Only to rest on her lips when she's
Thinking,

I love her.
Respect her. Adore her;
Deifying, as I do,
Beauty begetting beauty.

She creates as I create.
Seeing, transferring, telling.
Carrying torches for anything
That needs a prophet-

To anywhere that necessitates
Enlightenment
Entertainment
Escape
Elevation.

Her mind and hands are those of
A painter; stained with colour; holding
Reminders like bruises or
Ghosts of kisses

(Deep within ribs that cage
Affection for bloom without
Message; art for the sake of
Itself),  

Of reasons -painful as blissful-
To recreate from creation.
Adapting. Rendering; running
Each impression through
Her filters of appreciation.

She sees with naked eyes.
Listens to the rain from her balcony,  
With Portuguese red wine
Smiling in unison
With lips
Upon lips

That teach her hands to kiss
With the passion of
A loving lover loving longingly,
Drawing; designing; dreaming
Dream into substance.

She knows the language of
Living things, tells stories
With pictures all can comprehend.

My words are merely black and white,
And I lay down my pen and
Watch her

Understanding Nature when
It sighs: "I mean nothing by this,
Other than the deepest of all
Meanings.

All that is,
Is.

Let it."

When we don't speak
All signals are clear

As if undistorted by matters
Of heart's flesh and

Ego's transparent frailty.
Whether close as Siamese Lovers

Or a whole world apart; I have the
Password to the Wi-Fi of your soul.

Spring love.
If either of us dies
Tomorrow

It will be in celebration of
Winter passing.
Spring smells nice.

Us Norwegians live by
The weather.
When the

Hair stays on her
Pillow we both
Shave

Like there's no
Tomorrow.
I spell "love" however

I want.
Death adores its
Favourites.

Life and
Love hold hands and
Walk. We walk a lot.

When we move together
Through the dark streets of
Little Oslo,

Only children don't shy
Away. Black leather, band
Names,

Unretained laughter. If I
Saw us when I was eight,
I'd look up

To us too. I high-five a little
Boy as we pass. Only his mother
Doesn't laugh.

Old. New. Borrowed. Blue.
I wrote to you about putting
Down my shield.
Opening up.
Still, wounded as I am;
When you speak of marriage
I run like the opposite
Of a Viking.

I have battles.
Fight better without worries
For a loved one awaiting my
Return.
Visit me when I'm wounded.
Bring water. I'll have new scars
For your lips to
Learn.

This to celebrate those who
Swallow pride and shed own
Honour in the name of
World Peace.

Enemy hands shaking each other.
This to celebrate each helping
Stranger preventing robbery or
**** in a dark alley.

Care is the strongest defence.
This to celebrate the people who
Know the value of smiles and a
Friendly touch.

Flames that warm an entire room.
The ones who calm us down. This
To celebrate the old souls of the world,
The ones who say

You before me. Those whose
Turn is an always voluntary last.
The uninsultables.
The unstubborn ones.

The ones who shield the weakest,
Who place themselves on top of
Grenades or dive between bullets
And innocent hearts.

This to celebrate their brush strokes of
True colour on the bleak canvas
Of these dark and selfish
Times.

You are my gods.
I lay my whole person before you.
I bow unto you, prophets of the
Potential Paradise of Planet Earth.

Legs tired from running
On fumes, hands from the

Weight of band aids,
Blisters and splinters.

Busy bird building nests,
Chipped beak, fading feathers.

Angry at trees for asking me
To make

Them into
Houses.

The huge bird tattoo on her  
Back burns like lazers when
Her skin gets warm,

And I, a human radiator
Favouring a sub-zero bedroom
And thin covers not to

Burn an imprint of myself upon
The sheets,
Massage heavy lotion onto her

Cringing canvas, occasionally
Kissing that phoenix rising from
The ashes of her history of

Colder lovers.

Outside my window I count
Three shadows.
Twelve legs.
Grazing.

Up here we call the elk
The King of the Woods.
[Antlers the width of your widescreen;
As convincing a crown as any].

When they run past the house
The crystal shakes in
The cupboard.
The cat breaks records up trees.

I am a man.
I am merely a man.
I will never own the night.

I look for repetition in my
Poetry  
Run my hands through
Months of whittling and
Fitting
Words into figurines to
Detect

Boredom by border between
Own style and
Self-copying crossed
I find

The strongest move
I can make
Is to keep writing
However the Hell I
Want.

Her blood is a running force.
Her temple's hydraulics; the
Instrument of
Her will. She loves like a natural
Catastrophe
Without remorse or contemplation.
Leaving scars in her wake.
When she moves I hear the theme
Song to Raiders of the Lost Ark.
She is my Tomb Raider, my heroine.
I recieve her
Saving me
Like the plot of any
Action movie.

She has blood like a vulcano.
She has love like ashes to bury
Cities.

After the smoke clears
I survey the damage.

Or rather the lack
Thereof.

My eyes have grown.
My mouth narrowed.

I'm all ears; all hands
Unclenched.

I've learned to appreciate
A hug from my father,

Felt just how well
My mother knows my pain

Without a single drop of hint.
Silence. Ah, the silence.

To do what-, when-, however I want.
The freedom of a King Size alone.

My God, the things I gained
In the fire.

With godnames on sealed lips
I traverse midweek morning,
Leading the baby day
Through silent commands.

Shaping; raising it; preparing
For the excellent hours it'll
Become.
All I am is a result of

The choices I've made since
My first one.
Now here come more.
Every breath, every heartbeat,

Every sliver of your life;
An adventure, when you
Realize your powers.
Poet.

Tractor humming happily
In the dim daylight
Seeping through heavy clouds.

The soil out here needs water,
Rains are welcome for now.
I kiss fresh coffee by the

Window, listening to the drizzle
And swallows whistling past.
Yes, she's on my mind.

I breathe in the humid scents of
Early country Summer,
Feeling soft arms reach around

Me from behind; her forehead
Against the back of my neck.
Something whispered.

Soon. You'll see me soon.
Hear my voice. Soon. You'll
Meet me. Soon.

I shrug off the fantasies and
Walk my cup back to the
Table.

I know who she is.
She has no idea I exist.
For now.

****, I love this juvenile
Feeling of infatuation with a
Stranger,

Stealing glanzes at her Facebook
Pictures, grinning to myself about
Acting like a stalker,

Not even feeling guilty;
I stand for my innocent intentions.
She'll never hear a word from

Me. No friend request or desperate
Attempts at contact.
She has a room in my Palace of

Imagination-
Where she sometimes comes out
To wander around and

Bless me with her presence.
So impossibly beautiful.
Supernova smile,

Elegant tattoos.  
Eyes full of kindness, like two
Soothing suns. Night sky hair.  

Real, yet invisible until I
Close my eyes and taste the skin
Of her temple as she leans her

Head against mine and points
Towards the horizon.
Look how green everything has

Become...
I know.
It's so breathtaking I even

Imagine sharing it with someone
I love.
Then she's gone again,

And I am alone with the rain and
The nestbound swallows. And the  
Purring of a distant John Deere

Outside an open window where
We stood in love, as vividly
As within a really real dream.

With a steady stream of
Grains in miniscule multitude
Falling from my fist
I impersonate
Time.

I remember the ocean.
You tasted of it.

The sparrow and the crow.
Such music.

When we still had love, I'd listen to
Heartbreaking tunes and picture us

Apart.
I won.

Losing can be so ****
Beautiful.