She's getting tattooed by
My brother. He locked us in to
His studio just to give her
Her Christmas present
In ink.

Now she's tipsy with French
Red bottled painkillers,
And my brother keeps telling her
To sit still every thirty odd
Seconds.

He's about to cut it down to
Every tenth.
Outside, people try the studio
Door, thinking it's open, but
No.

This is the time for the special.
Oslo day turns into night,
Neon dances, beggars get more
Intense, and in the middle of it
All, I glance over my

Carlsberg at her long, long black
Hair dyed red at the tips,
And think something to myself
That rhymes with home, but
Not alone.

There's something about drinking
A little beer on a Monday.
The moon and stars look down at
Us; their slightly lost,
Most beloved children, and

Dream Theater sing Pull
Me Under, as I think that
She might have done so by
Just about *******
Now.

Your legs slightly bruised
From twigs and tall grass
Belong in my lap

Where you wiggle your toes
With excitement
Over cold, sweet fruit salad

And the purples and crimson
Of sun-now-down
That evade the lens of your

iPhone through the window.
What? you ask half
Laughing at my smile.

It feels like before, I'm
Tempted to say. *I have nothing
More, Your Honour.

One for sorrow, two for joy...
Black spots in waves over
Snow crusted
Fields and the jagged
Dark teeth of pine
Beyond.

Girl, boy, silver, gold.* I
I only know her well enough
To trace the place on my face
Where it last
Touched hers, with a
Pensive finger as

I gaze out at the
Winterness floating by.
Yes, I guess that feels like a
Smile. Eight for a wish, nine
For a kiss.
Something secret wonders if

It ever will want to be told,
And I hold the part of myself
That would rather soar than
Join feathers with another,
Tightly. I never seem to get my
Crows in a row.

Sun shining on the white shells
Of pearls cradled in mid-day warm
Sands will not excuse herself

For making them sparkle hot
Under her invisible hands.
Snow landing on the faces of

The battleground fallen
Rests as easily as on the forehead
Of a fever ridden child now soothed.

Tides rise and withdraw, rains
Drench even the drowning.
This is why you must feel the pain

You do. Finish this bad day.
Meet tomorrow
Older.

Mirror-faced with
The cold feeling of
-Razor in hand-
Having taken off
Too much beard.

This knowing you made
The argument
Ugly.

I fall asleep a king
Awake a god
I am a master at my job

I accept full responsibility
For my life;
Set myself free
Daily

Wherever I turn in my
Everyday
There's art

Music
My home is a gallery
There's masterpieces even inked

On my beautiful woman's skin
Her whole person is perfection
Her smile is a .44 shot in darkness;

Blinding, then deadly
She is all I want, and she's mine
It's a ******* dream

It's Full House, Aces over Queens
The gods love me; read'em and
Weep

Bleeding ears from smiling
Too wide.

Her ribs get startled at times;
Her heart is that light.

Where are you? I ask.
Pick me up with your attitude,

Give me a ride out of this
Dark, downwards town;

Furious with fumes and
Fright fuelled fear of

Abandonment.
I need to see it

Rear view mirrored. Appearing
Closer than it is.

Every morning
I arise a different
Poet than the one I
Fell asleep as.

I know you struggle; I've seen
Eyes like yours in
The mirror before.

Sit down. Breathe. It's a
Recreational universe
If you let it.

Open your hands. Look.
What is that? It's heavy.
Sharp. Red hot.

Hands worn, blistering,
Bleeding. Let it drop.
Here, I'll carry you.

I'll carry you like a father.
Let go of your burdens.
Be mine.

I run on your relief.
When you wake up  
We'll be there.

I behold
Beautiful girl
Holding kitten
With a toy in its
Mouth
All of us
Refusing
Release.

We knew nothing of war, we were
Brought up in peace.
Those days were a different
Colour than these.
We played in the fields,
Built houses in trees.
Few children on Earth were as
Lucky as me.

So distant, the light of
Yesterday's skies.
But I remember Paradise.

The smell of her neck, her
Hair in my face.
We'd lie there and stare into
Outter space.
We'd hide from the world, but
The world knows her heart.
She found us together and
Ripped us apart.

So distant, the home that I found
In her eyes.
But I remember Paradise.

I love to look back, but I need  
Not to pine.
Yesterday's carved in the
Backbone of time.
Pearls on the seaside,
Reflecting the past.
More solid than gold are the
Memories that last.

Smoke might rise from tomorrow's skies.
But yesterdays hide not a single surprise.
Time is a hawk, and despite how she flies.
I'll always remember Paradise.

Rest. You did well
Today.
Smiled when you didn't have
To. Worked when you
Didn't want to.
Rest. You

Left nothing for the next day  
That was truly
Critical.
You've earned

All the trust that tomorrow
Requests;  
The hopes you have for it seen as
Solid matter.

Listen to the wind moving
The branches of the Tree of Time.
It sings of you.
It sings of how good you are
At Life.

Listen.
Listen and
Rest. Rest
Knowing you can do it.  
You already are.

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.

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.

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.

So the Poet knows that to
Stand up for it all,  
He'll have to stand down.
Stand back and
Look around,

Say to himself: Your big heart
Deserves better than
Your big head, brother.
You can both have
Whomever you
Want.

So if you want each other,
Keep wanting each other.
You're not
Stupid, you've got hands. It ain't
Rocket Romance.

I stand yelling on both of my own
Shoulders, trying
Not to confuse
Myself.

I love you.
I'll take that. And
Run with
It.

Own blood drawn. Self-
Shelving branch sawn.

Blade or stone,
Blood of brother.

Will Time see times
Without the tears of

A wailing
Mother? Free from

One hand stabbing
The other?

She is too wide a world
To carry only
A bright side.

She is the hole in my
Roof. And the stars I get
To watch through it.

Give her more and more space
To be her own woman.

Give her room to grow.
Give her room.  

Independence is as solid a
Foundation to build a life upon

As any. Just make sure she sees
Your intention as is.

Dependence will drive her to think
You stopped caring.

Dependence will fool her into
Seeing it as birth. Of an ending.  

Dependence is no walls; no roof,
No floor.

Give her room to grow.
Give her *room.

My shoulders were weak
From being there for myself
To lean on,

So I let my guard down
And **** well cried onto
Her naked skin,

Whispering between sobs
I'm so tired. Just...
So tired.

Not my most manly  
Of moments. Not the
Least, either.

I made myself a healthy
Dinner today.
It was not delicious.

I wonder why the dead only
Pass through my bedroom
Goosebumping my exposed arm,
When I'm alone.

It's as if they won't disturb us, or
Know they'd startle her a lot more
Than they do me.
They're as unsensational to me as

Any gust of wind; falling stars
Leaving temporary tails on the night
Skies like salamanders escaping the
Grasp of a hungry atmosphere.

Faceless footsteps, doors opening,
Invisible tenants at times nudging  
Me awake, whispering wordlessly:
Did you blow out that last candle,

Young man?
Creaking walls, blinking lights.
I welcome them with warm
Sincerity. Dead or alive,

A fleeting mist in an old room
Or flesh and blood speaking only
Of times long gone over lukewarm
Tea; I always respect my elders.

Earth spinning beyond the
Speed of sound, and I cover
Dizzy ears and catch

Myself grinding my teeth
As if gnawing at my leg to
Free myself

From this pale blue
Ball and
Chain.

I sat (as I do when I don't need to stand)
By the river Vorma, a twenty minute forest walk
From my home farm.

Bukowski sat with me, speaking of how even
The best books in the world are
Merely sawdust.

I watched the sun via the water go from bright,
Innocent yellow to dark, sensual shades of
All sorts of blood,

Blushing with its whole self, then withdrawing
Beyond the rippled mirror image of its
Completely unjustified shame.

I lost my reading light, folded Charlie up and
Sat with my arms across my knees, watching
Fish jump on unsuspecting dinner insects,

Tossed the book in the water, and sighed.
The whole scene was just too perfect
Not to.

she guides my hand towards
her chest.
opens up with a sigh and
leads my fingers to her
crusted heart.

here. tear off these scabs so
I can bleed the
wounds
clean and let them close up
as smoothe scars
instead.
I refuse to hurt by
other hands than
yours.

this is love.
there are no band-aids
here.

People die.
Some young.

I recall my stolen
Moment. Soul's eyes

Opening; floating, cradled
In warmth -such

Contrast to the sterile
Chill of the table against

My back-
Beeps and pings fading

Like some sun setting
Somewhere behind.

That's right...
How could I forget...?

Seeing Day.
Sleep ending.

People die.
Some young,

But a few close their eyes
And return. I love this

Beautiful, terrifying
Dream.

To E.

I guess it's not nice to hold a knife
To someone's throat and say
Take that back, boy*,
But you did and it's done, and
Insulting my mother the way he did,
I agree that he needed to learn.
He'll never know
It was your sister's
Nail file from when she borrowed
Your coat
That he felt. He shook for hours.

You were refreshingly crazy. Crazy
And equally sly
About hiding the needle marks
From your parents.

Skin and bone, pale as snow from
Riding that old white horse
Since thirteen.
A ghost long before you went.

They found you by their kitchen
Table, box of pills and a note
By your still hands.
Tidy and organized
For once.

You are still my friend,
Wherever you are.
Your memory as intact

As my mother's honour
Remains
To this
Day.

Foot tapping on waiting room
Linoleum with the pace of test
Result nervousness.

Scent of mostly bad news
Layered on walls in dire need
Of paint and less tasteless

Decor.
Her name is a shot fired at
The shield surrounding her

Continous playback of worst
Case scenarios as her hand meets
That of the doctor

Whose eyes give less than
Nothing away.
Please sit down.

Sink like shards of shattered
Hearts, or float for decades in
Love with the worried man

Awaiting the same news with
Unsteady workman's hands
Around a ***** phone.

It vibrates, and the Doomsday
Clock in his chest skips ticks
And tocks, approaching a

Schrödinger's midnight or noon.
I'm in remission, she whispers.
Then nothing.

Nothing but two unison breaths
Carried across an umbilical
Cord connecting souls that just

Lost their full
Amount of
Weight.

This is Relief.
This is Sunrise;
Spring.

I move towards you,
But you evade.
Like a rainbow.

There is no you,
Just an idea.
A unicorn.

The slow flash of blue
On a touch screen
That indicates

There's nothing
More to scroll
To.

The building is coming together.
Some floors are already
Glass wall offices and water
Cooler rooms.

For one year, this concrete
Mansion has been my
Workplace.
I have scars from edges now

Invisible to the suits and secretaries
Of tomorrow.
Somewhere underneath this
Wooden flooring,

My blood drops still remain.
I stand on the glass roof,
Watching my friends in hi-vis
Eight floors beneath me.

This was sky once.
This was nothing.
This held seagulls and city crows
Fighting over bread like the

Two remaining pieces of a chess
Game. Overhead, morning clouds
Withdraw to let a rising sun
Lay its red on Oslo,

And other buildings
I built. Housing
Other drops of my
Blood.

A fish in flight; a queen diving
Free, slender and one with the
Streaming hands that caress

While she slides through the
Ocean's nerves and lips and fingertips,
Being the truth; that

This mother of two gentle kings
Is water-based and carries tears
Enough to drown the world

For them. Has cried her pillows
Warm for them,
A mama bear to any fear that

Might wish any harm on them.
She swims in seas in Neverland,
And dreams of feeling strong

Again.
I recognize that song, my friend.
So be where you belong, my friend:

Keep the ocean in your heart,
And when the skies within are
Dark, just

Close your eyes and jump right in,
Feel the salt against your skin.
Taste the water, stroke the

Seaweed; feel its
Calmness seep
Within.

You breathe, then I.

Every crack in the pavement
Is a chasm dividing myself
From the loveless life I
Cherished.

Facebook relationship status
It's uncomplicated.
It still is, but the butterflies in
My stomach have

Butterflies in theirs, and I
Carry flowers like a grave
Hiding the remains of my
Plans to see the year through as

A single man.
You breathe, then I.
You touch my face, then I
Yours.

My hands hold your scents
For hours.
You breathe.
I breathe.

You sleep, then I.

Eyes like two suns I stare
Directly into without blinking.
A TV I sit too close to while
Watching myself fall and fall and

Fall.
I drop to the ground. Then you,
And my arms are jungles, my arms
Are oceans, my arms are a

Bed or a bouncing castle beneath
You.
We don't fall in love.
We fly.

I fear no living thing, nor dead.
No monsters hide beneath my bed.
I've heard and seen my share
Of ghosts. I find them harmless;

More than most of all that
Walks and thinks and breathes,
That carries blades or guns, and
Bleeds. But all I find a fright to be

Is resting deep inside of me.
There's Weakness there, it's hiding
Well, it's cunning, slippery, strong
As hell. There's Fury too; a

Juggernaut -awakened by a single
Thought. But enemy to them is Soul,  
Its agent's name is Self Control.
It cages them with Love and Care,

And ties them down with
Self-Aware.

Let me be your shadow;
Never in your way.

That robin on the wire outside
Is shaking the rain from its feathers,
Drying in the warmth from Sun

Pushing dark clouds apart;
Letting us both

Breathe in the absence
Of the recent downpour.

That a lover,
(Poets, prepare,)

Might reply to your
Heart's semantic blood,

As
Such:

Stop using the word
"Love" in your poems.

Just say what you
Mean.

Just say what you really
*..."mean.

What you mean.
When you

Write
"Love.""

Flower eyes.
Cloudless smile.
Hair like a slow motion
Waterfall

Waving through air
Towards the center of
My breathlessness.
Flower eyes,

Ears made for music.
Skin; fresh snow upon warm
Sand crying beads of
Sweat from dancing.

Breath, a breeze that carries the
Scent of Eden's flora.
I open my eyes still dreaming,
Feeling fingers on my face,

Tasting nectar lips and the
Love of an angel having
Fallen for it.
Wingless thing,

Trading Heavens for our touch.
Unto nothing less than your
Flaming feather heart would I
Surrender.

Flower eyes. Petal tears.
Dream me back from this world
Of sharp edges and jagged realities.
Meet me there,

Where no rough imitation of
Our union could take root.  
I will rest within you.
Kiss your flower eyes uncrying.

There for him
At his own convenience;

Waited at a set table
To watch him eat, then

Gave herself to any other
Thirst he might

Crave quenched. Treating
Her like an appliance,

Seeing her as a machine, dead
Eyes silent when she dared

Ask when will I see you
Again?

She cried for a year.
I'll never blame

Critical eyes burning
Holes in my back.

I love them for watching
Over her heart.

These are days of contrast,
Little girl.

I mean every
Flower.

And has a belly so full of my
Vegetable stew with Swedish
Sausage she can barely keep
Her beautiful eyes open.
Heavy with a strange weekend
Behind her, and the road.
I feel bad for mostly eating and
Sleeping. More beer than water
(Showers included).
Mine was a lighter load
This time, princess.
I'd take yours in a heartbeat,
I'm tempted to say. But I stop
Myself at your
Recent loss.

Now finish your cider. Pat
Wolfie good night.
I'll carry you to bed
Where all I expect
Is that you
Sleep.

We'll both be here
In the morning.

How ****** it is,* is all
I ever hear about
Things.

So polish the ****.
Put make-up on the
Pig.

On every piece of space-junk
There is a thin film of
Astronaut's

Business,
They tell me.
So look past it.

We're all
Partly
Soil;  

There's crap in everything.
Focus on what isn't.
The Devil's in the

Details, so I suppose
God is in the
Rest.

Show me a sunset.
And don't point
Out

The
Dying
Light.

Or the lack of
Poetry on
A blank

Page. The paper had
Nothing to do with
It,

Nor the night skies with how
The sun came
And

Ruined
It
All.

The adding of poems to collections?
They often come in nearly
Endless clusters.

Excessive repetition is
Flattering to nothing.

Its not fair to the reader.
It's not fair to the poem.

I place all of my
Sympathies
Before
You.

Angel wings around me.
Feathers in my face.
Pillow the size of Jupiter.
Sheets of silken seas on surfaces of
Worlds yet undiscovered.
I sleep loved.

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.

I wake up on my sofa after
Work, knowing she needs

Workman's hands to hold
Hammer and nail at

Points she's chosen for her
Pictures.

A stronger back for heavier
Things, but I'm spent. Work is

War, now. Power drill, pistol.
I bark orders at privates,

Not warnings at young, spiteful
Carpenters

Fresh from school
With too

Much product in their
Hair to want to wear their

Mandatory
Hard hats.

My heart skips beats when I
Lift. I count falling stars

At daytime climbing stairs.
Lie to concerned foremen.

A brain-soul-body Bermuda
Triangle of energies lost.

I have love to last her lifetimes,
Shoulders to rest her weary,

Closed eyes against or dig her
Fingernails into, gasping.

But for now, the ceiling I gaze
Up at stares back down judgingly,

Not recognizing this frowning
Ghost of the mud-covered grin I

Carried a few, short years ago.
The futile clawing and sliding of

A minuscule man climbing a
Colossal statue of himself.