Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
dan hinton Oct 2017
60,3913  N, 5,3221 E, Bergen, 22.05.17

The Germans wear you down spiritually. They look through you with eyes of ice. It hurts when you see your friends turn their back on you. When you see the girl you loved, kissed in the canteen by a *****.  Your heart burns. What has he got that I haven’t? Apart from the muscle that pads out his boiler suit. No-one wants an intelligent man. I sit here sipping coffee in a fishing village café in Bergen. The coffee is hot and my heart aches. Soon we will be making our way up through the fjords to Geiranger. The beautiful fjords that embrace you. There is not so much to bear witness to here. The Gravlax is poor and overrated. Everything is shut. The dreary rain comes down on * A colleague drove me all the way to Hardanger Bridge. The bridge that connects Oslo and Bergen is truly breath-taking. I have seen the Milau Bridge in the South of France, the Somerset Bridge, Clifton Suspension Bridge. However, this is really the highlight of Bergen; unless you are drunk.
17.00 - we leave for G.
62,1008 N, 72059, E, Geiranger, 23.05.17

I wrote to Nan last night. I asked for her guidance. I want everything to be okay with Aline. 05.00 hours I got up to see the Geiranger fjords. They were breathtaking; we passed the Rock God in the cliff face. Or rather; he let us pass. Norway is really a paradise. I think how people only think with their bellies. Helen the nurse abandons us half way up the waterfall. I turn back. The Germans have an acute interest only in themselves. One wonders where love lies. I have found Ole’s café – at the base camp of the waterfall. It is here I feel at home. At this coffee shop I must remember everything properly. I must also forget Helen and how angry she makes me feel.  Mr. Edin said: “It’s the system that makes them so. Everyone is born the same.”

62,0861, N, 6,8687 E, Hellesylt, 23.05.17

I hate my life. I hate my inability to fall in love with anyone and anyone to fall in love with me. These days I can’t stand to look at the face that I see in the mirror. Parts of me crumble away to dust. I feel more and more bitterness, in port, towards couples that have found love – to the point of absurdity. Ice-skating; I drift slowly around the rink. It is the only real time I feel complete when I am alone. I see a couple kissing and happy in love. I feel anger and a bitterness burning up within me.  Why can’t I find someone that loves me simply? Why do I have to do all this **** – the garbage of personal relationships. Hellesylt is truly beautiful. At least I feel at one with nature; even if I don’t fit in anywhere else.

59,4136 N, 5,2680, E, Haugesund, 24.05.17

The war against fat, like finding love, is ongoing. I always feel I am the loser. I am a loser. I am sat in a coffee shop overlooking the red and yellow houses. I try and chat up the waitress;  a beautiful Norwegian blonde. I try and embody the image of a sailor. It works to some extent, but actually only reflects back on myself as a person. The aching has grown less. The coffee helps to balm the dissatisfaction I feel with life; as does the view across the river. There is an English couple opposite. How can you complain with that view out across the river? Twenty-five degrees, surely we must be able to leave our pain behind? I feel myself become more and more alive; back to life. The wounds are healing again. The pain passes.

5,89700 N, 57331, E, Stavanger, 25.05.17
We are going to sit and hammer this out. This book, this journal, bears witness to life. That is its meaning.  Why is it so hard to find love and to be loved? I am only an anatomical structure – corruptible, breakable flesh. Stavanger is quite simply a boring town. You can walk from one end to the other in thirty minutes. There is a church; a freedom monument and slated, wooden houses. Yuliana the Belarusian pushes her body onto mine, beneath the Northern Lights like a teddy bear; she hugs me again and again, never letting me go. I kiss her delicately on the ear. She giggles. I can still hear her voice now and the smell of her sweet perfume. Oh, how I burn inside. How many thoughts and feelings wheel in an instant. How capricious this heart is. I must drink another coffee.

59,9139 N, 10,7522,E, Oslo, 26.05.17
I am on the hunt for a Durian fruit in Oslo. My hunt for Hardanger Beer with the appropriate label also continues. We dock right in the centre of Oslo. The sun warms me. Trust me to fall in love with the only lesbian on board. In Oslo’s most popular café, Kaffebereint,  I think how I get myself into such situations. Maybe it’s because I love long nails on a woman. She has forgotten her scarf. I should really do more sit up and visit the gym. My feet are too busy wandering. Sauna Night takes place onboard – a reward for all those who helped out at the party below the mooring deck. I serve punch and party the night away. For a while I forget the disappointment of people and the strangeness of my body. Oslo is beautifully serene. I walk in the footsteps of Ibsen. I try and make my writing smaller and smaller so that it is almost like Chinese ideograms. I close the gap. I try to be neater; to be better. I walk along the boulevards of coffee shops, wondering how I can be better.
53,35 N, 8,35 E, Bremerhaven, 28.05.17
I am back home (in home port) from the Nordic Voyage. I need to rest up in Hamburg before embarking on the next adventure to the Northern Cape. 21.06.17 at 1700 hours – Bergen. What else is there to report on as we approach the quaint fishing port of Bremerhaven? Home. Only that my ex-girlfriend from Algiers has given birth to a baby girl; she wrote to me. Two years old. Name: Eline. Letters are wonderful. The waves lap gently at the boat. If you ever thinking about writing a letter, you should; we haven’t spoken for two years and she writes to me, out of the blue, because of a Christmas card she picked up in Dar Es Salaam. That is life; life on a boat; life at sea; life on the breadline. A sailor’s life is a funny thing; full of unpredictability.  Even as an enthusiastic merchant sailor I can see the draw of this life. – as tough as I am, what else is there to say? Only that another adventure waits me in Hamburg –

The rest of this transcript, as subsequent potential voyages is lost.
excerpts from my latest book
Àŧùl May 2015
Because often there are icy roads,
Icy roads coated with darkest ice,
They can make vehicles slip & crash,
All slip not only out of the icy roads,
But even into each other they collide,
These call for going slow in Oslo,
'Cause reasons suchlike prevail.

Neither snow chains can help much,
Nor being an expert driver help you,
No other thing is going to help you..

Help yourselves & others too,
Just go slow in Oslo...
Enjoy!

My HP Poem #865
©Atul Kaushal
Terry Collett May 2013
Outside Oslo
in the base camp
after showering
you met Moira

in the cafe
for breakfast
and coffee
she was in a mood

about the Yank girl
and having to share
a tent with her
(when she wasn’t off

someplace being *******
Moira said)
and always chewing gum
and those *******

she wears
I’ve seen more cloth
on a finger cut
she said

I’ll take your word for it
you said
she pouted
and stared at you

the finger cut I meant
you said
by the way
are you into

Oslo today?
you asked
mind if I hang along?
sure as long as you don’t

talk about the Yank
or football or Mahler
or whoever else
is hid up

in that brain of yours
she sipped her coffee
and ate her breakfast
saying nothing more

and you watched
as she ate
her eyes dark
and deep

her hair frizzed up
after the shower
her tee shirt
holding tight

her ****
and her blue jeans
hugging her thighs
as you’d like to do

later in Oslo
you toured about
the streets
saw the sights

had a beer or two
while you sat
with her
in some bar

she talking of Glasgow
and her job
and her brother
and his girlfriend

and how
she had this awful
wiggly ****
and floppy *******

and large eyes
like cow pats
soft and brown
and she laughed  

and you liked it
when she laughed
it made her seem better
more human

less grumpy
less critical
and had you been
more brave you might

have kissed her
there and then
but you didn’t
you just ordered

another beer
and talked of Nietzsche
and Mahler
just to watch

her lips move
and incidentally
bore her.
SG Holter Jun 2014
Oslo
Summer

Hot

I eat
Ice cream

Like a
Child
Poetry Reading in Oslo
Never had the lack of talent exhibited itself in so many poets.
I'm referring to a poetry fest in Oslo- years ago- for whom
Norwegian was not their first language.
On a wooden table booklets of third-rate poetry trying to
look invisible disowning the poet's feeble effort to make
words sing. The poetry reading was disrupted the readers
a military band next door a blessing for the listeners of
trite words of love. Among the naïve public, women looking
for *** with young poets thinking it was romantic.
What a moth-eaten group of poets assembled in this cold and
indifferent land, hope is when they came home sat down and
through hard work gave birth to poetry.
Terry Collett Mar 2015
Dalya sits
in some bar
beside me

in Oslo
she sipping
a cool beer

me likewise
smoking too
how was she

last night then?
I ask her
what you mean?

you make it
sound as if
I had ***

with the *****
I meant how
did it go?

just the same
on about
the men she's

had *** with
as if I
cared a ****

who she's had
between her
skinny thighs

Dalya says
and how's he
the Aussie

you share with
in the tent?
he's ok

but his talk
is mostly
on good beer

or luscious
hot Sheilas
typical

just like men
Dalya moans
what do you

talk about
to the dame
in your tent?

I ask her
nothing much
certainly

not about
my *** life
she then sips

her cool beer
eyeing me
do you talk

to him then
that Aussie?
she asks me

sure I do
what about?
about beers

of the world
and cricket
and how long

it takes him
to wake up
after ***

you never
she utters
spluttering

a mouthful
of warm beer
over me

I like it
how her eyes
light up bright

like small stars
on a cold
frosty night.
A BOY AND GIRL IN OSLO IN 1974.
Please help pray for Paris. I feel so helpless and sad tonight. I wish it wasn´t real.

Paris

Friday night in Budapest
Music echoing in a bar
A man and woman well dressed
Walking towards their car

Friday night in Paris
Sirens echoing in the street
Chaos rapidly embowering bliss
Ground shaking under running feet

Friday night in Oslo
Laughter and good wine
Tall candlesticks standing aglow
Faces losing track of time

Friday night in Paris
Laughter twisting into cries
Searching for those you miss
As black smoke fills the skies

Friday night in Berlin
Together watching a football game
Hoping that your team will win
Cheering with a poster of their name

Friday night in Paris
Blood on the big green field
Lying on the ground alive you wish
That it simply isn't real

Friday night in London
Going out with a friend
Hearing the ringing of big ben
Thinking of how much to spend

Friday night in Paris
Crowds shattered by gunshots and hate
On your knees filled with anguish
You loved, but now it is too late

Friday night in Rome
Midnight walks under the sky
Couples together, walking home
Others turning to say goodbye

Friday night in Paris
Hate took away the morning
No words can fix this
Or dry the tears of the mourning
Please help pray for Paris. I feel so helpless and sad tonight. I wish it wasn´t real.
Terry Collett Jun 2014
We woke up in Oslo;
the sunlight seen
through the slit
when the zip
of the tent was opened.

I breathed in the air
trying to get through
the mustiness of bodies
and stale night air.

How did you sleep?
Dalya asked.

Disturbed mostly.

Why?

Well you were there
and and I was over here,
and you slept so peacefully,
your breathing so regular,
so neat.

She looked around at me
from the zip
and said,
how did that disturb you?

I was wake
and couldn't sleep
and seeing you sleeping
disturbed me.

Why couldn't you sleep?

Too much *****,
too much heavy food,
I don't know,
just couldn't get off.

You oughtn't
to be here anyway,
she said,
if the Yank girl
hadn't gone off
into your tent
with the Aussie guy
to do whatever,
you would be there
with him.

What was I to do
sleep out
in the cold night air?
I would have caught
pneumonia or such.

It shocked the ****
out of me
seeing you there
in my tent
when I woke this morning,
Dalya said.

Then I realized
the Yank prat
wasn't here
and put one
and one together.

Don't make a habit of this.

Well, you tell her
to keep out of my tent
and I’ll tell the Aussie
to have his *** elsewhere,
I said.

I'm going for a shower,
she said,
I’ll call out to her
to get out of your tent
on the way
and then you can get
your gear
to shower and dress.

She went out the tent
with her towel
and changed of clothing.

I lay there
in yesterday's clothes,
feeling yuk and tired,
gazing at the scenery
through the slit
of the zip area.

When I entered her tent
the night before
she was asleep,
so I crept to the other side
of the tent and slept
on top of the sleeping bag
of the Yank girl,
only I didn't sleep
too well,
but I watched Dalya,
the sleeping beauty,
sleeping
in her sleeping bag
zipped up and tidy
and blew a kiss
from my palm
which touched
her shoulder.

I always smiled
at that
as I got older.
A BOY AND GIRL CAMPING THROUGH EUROPE IN 1974 AND AT OSLO.
Gazing through the tallest
green nettles

I realized they do
not bite me

Cause it was not the day
for stings and aching

Cause i had the black
mountain boots
and a heart
on my
dim
dark
sport gown

My hands reached
upwards
the Heavens
towards  
the white yello

Crown
of
Elder's Abundance

Where Scented Blossoms
Coloured my skin

And exposed my life lines

After
The coolest tangerine
Lemonade

I sat on the black soil
squished young grasses
and found the
tiniest
snail
baby

My palm was a giant Plato
For it's snailish leg

On the left one
he was without weight
portruding forth
to his destination

Is it possible that
his house was
3,5 mm
long
Isn't it cute
that when streched
was 7 mm
at lenght

Visible horns
like 1 mm
and half of it

The upper
The downward
Twotwo
Four

What are you looking at
My lines or me

If he climbs from my
left palm on the right one
It's ment to be

I'll visit the seaside

Fibbonacci House Spiralled
Inner layers with colours
outer still
and translucent

Is it possible
this tiny snail
thinks about me

It didn't work
It remained
on my heart's side

Then I moved this
cutest creature
on my right palm

Little little snail
you're not a match
to squeeze

From the right to the left
I thought to myself
he is she
i don't know
snail's so young
for sure it doesn't seek another snail

To cherrish and love

Yet
It
Climbed on my left thumb
Beautiful in motion
As a revolution
For better days

It is my heart's side
My vision became
Sharp
Clouds
Waffed all around on the deepest blue
White and puffy

Magickal
Metallic

Dragonfly

Emerged out of

Nowhere

Had landed on a spider web
cocoon
on the Verge
of Enchanted Forest
Where grave monument resides

Dragonfly
was in the air
the invisible wings fluttered

My sharp vision
focused on
another three
Blueish
camerades

They don't need los zapatos
They are not obsessed as
Imelda was

And i wasn't thinking
about that at all

This words are for you:
thank you for the music
but the dragonflies
buterflies I love
most.

They were near my
heart,
one caressed among
tall grasses
one butterfly
also

not in oslo

and
Fibbonnaci Friend
who gave me this
Sharp vision

To see the magic
revealing all
around.
~~~~~~~~~
Imagined by
Impeccable Space
Poetic Flame
~~~~~~~~~~
SG Holter Apr 2014
One hour north of Oslo
It is spring morning.
I see my bus
Through my breath.

Up here it's cold until
The sun screams in the summer day
And whimpers red and spiteful all
Night;

We've barely seen it for six months.
Winter is white ground/black air;
Colour only in the cheeks of
Dog walkers
Under thick hats and wrapped in
Yards of scarf.

Life is magnificent when awakening
From annual cryo.

I smile at it from my seat.

It's almost time for my ritual.
Friday after work.
Alone.
The one beer, and the burning of
The Long Johns.
Showman Feb 2013
Cocoon. Gloom. Womb. Doom. Room.
Don’t!
For most, words doth froth forms.

Oh, foolproof.  
Lord John, Jov, Thor, Job.
Lord John knows Thor's job

Now. Photoshop. School Of Rock.
Tomorrow. Hop On Pop.
Zorro Snorro.

Who?
Wrong!
Whom?
Mr. Roboto; old clown of Oslo won’t.

Yolo. Boom!
Mateuš Conrad May 2020
i'm not a "gamer"... i'm a brothel leech...
a gomorrahite...
   this antithesis of safe-space
sodomites...
      gaming: ending with MGS1...
FFVIII... tenchu...
      for the console...
age of empires...
rome: total war...
                           i'll pay an extra 10 quid
to slur an oyster...
on top of 10 quid goes to
the madame... this fat ***** that would look
better in a slaughterhouse...
and that... gimp... turk... "turk"...
of a bodyguard: 5'9"... of something
i'd rather: first: sneeze on...
before piunching it for a sound
a making solids...

i'm not a gamer... but i'm keen pmn narratives...
and i'm willing to provide the diskjockey
sountrack...
either all vomito *****...
or... :wumpscut...
soylent grün...
                               thorns...
bunkertor sieben...
          anita sarkeesian: but...
                 i know when something
becomes just about enough:
       annoying...
if i had children...
             i'd be... but i don't...
so there's no point me venturing to:
the far far away... in... once upon a time
sort of galaxy... and story...

what could possibly be wrong
with: reclaiming a nation a place
for the orthodox in-breeders to secure
the spireweb waiting for the spider?
cousins best... confined...
to Gaza human shields reunion...
i don't mind the brothers ******* the sisters...
contraception: please...
but when cousins are *******
and no contraception is invoked...
anyone? with two months spare...
for liberal lingo...
and... how... the flu was given...
a "season": interlude...

            sooner i choke on blood...
the nation and the diaspora...
sorry... but the 'ebrews aren't the sole depostiory
"grieving party":
forever those not knowing
the snow of cracow... "oops":
yeah... that... "oops"...

        iowa.... is like that,,,
the ukraine of europe: the ukraine
of h'america: iowa?
and albania... the physiognomy of
a ******* plato: the vestern
vegeterians still keep dubbing it: "east"...
east is turkey... it isn't...
mesapotamia... whittle asia...
whittle shrimp ****...
**** cares you get covered in
**** phlegm... no... seriously...
what... sh'sh'shire?!

      keep pushing back the "east" *******...
albanians are practically macedonians
are practically greeks:

ancient greece is the birth of our modern
democracy: say that... pretending to be...
constipated...
east... east of Berlin? east of... Kiev?
east of Warsaw... east of Bucharest...
east of Budapest... i'm pretty sure:
south of Stockholm, Oslo, Helsinki...
dangengham & reddbridge and copenhagen:
not... "too... sure"...

east ******! greenwich mean-time!
part of the club: not part of the club...
**** it... wozz-eVer...
albanians are the sort of east
that the greeks are sort of north...
because...
   being a... greenwich:
**** three ways tends to be...
a bit... "confusing"...
                                                  ­       no?
tabloid press entertainment...
           shoot a lucky 'un from Syria...
go on... heavens only knows why
saudio arabia sits: fat... and harem...
impotent... when it comes to...
sheltering the syrias...
so much for the ummah!
so much for islam!

         *******: pseudo saudi grecoid!
you pseudo-arab
                     turk wash-up monkey!
that lawrence:
better shelved that care for a suntan...
beside...
            pakistani: ummah proud!
three words...

                   khadija **** khuwaylid:
who wrote the first surahs when
everyone treated muhammad as an ******?
he was the illiterate...
she was the older woman...
with an acumen for business...
she was literate... he wasn't...
miracle! a ****** mary birth!

                            *******'s worth of levant crap:
best kept in zoological matters...
you already stole the gods...
i have 'ere...
the crucifixion... i must make that
obsolete: if investigated:
by investing in a pike... running through
at the genesis: **** or pelvis...
hands died...
what of: "n.e.w.s."?!

           i don't game... i don't gamble...
this is plenty;
not enough the nation...
because... the status quo of the diaspora...
no? it has always remained a concern
that was already made available:
what is the intellectual concern
for the nation...
when all intellects: for... nationalism...
have failed...
who is to unhinge: the strict foundations
of 2000 years of the diaspora...
and the yids are not alone...

           who would require a bunch of israeli
farmers of dates and lemons...
when the diaspora of brookyln 'ebrews is:
as it ever was...
or the diaspora of persians...

                  call it a "nation"... i call it...
native russians of cosmopolitan moscow...
rereading the mythology of...
      the kamchatka peninsula...
          eh... what's alaska?
             wet wood to burn...
                                       nation: the cosmopolitan
antics! *******! *******! thrice! the cockerel!

saudi arabia could: saudi arabia should...
given the concept of the ummah...
give... what the syrians deserve...

     but seeing how the saudis treat the syrians
like they're kosovans: remains of the ottomans...
etc.: and the afghans are like...
this in-breeding fetish for understanding
iceland... etc. etc.
      
         simplified bargains of narrative...
              who takes who and what...
who's what and what's who...
        i almost forgot...
it's not repatriation: not really...
when the sundail: proper... isn't moving...
to repatriate within the confines of:
made in china...

                   ten thousand romanian
fruit pickers...
   i was born into a theatre of metallurgy...
soviet: yes...
but cheap soviet iron is better than
cheap-****-*****...
         repetriation of economy... comes first...
then... comes the thought concerning
the "outliers".
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
and i'm watching this spectacle... and i agree:
  female tennis is probably more
enjoyable than
  male tennis... there's so much
dialogue involved...
   and oh god, i am but a simple man,
i like my klinik, and my wumpscut
and my other fringe altars
of culture...
but i really like watching the 7 rectangles...
isn't a tennis court a case of 7 rectangles?
no? i thought it was...
  1 at the beginning, 2 are the side,
2 either side, and 2 for the served into "square"
across the net, service, 1st serve, net-first-service...
15 - love...
                then i watch a video by
black pigeon speaks and i'm fired up...
not that i have anything planned
in a year to come,
i'm too wrapped up in the bewilderment of
being able to **** out a bottle of wine,
but seem to never be able to **** out a bottle
of whiskey...
  dunno: it just happens...
i spent the past few hours cleaning the slates
of the bathroom from feline diarrhoea...
    so you know: i'd love to reach the summits
of gucci perfumes, if you'd care to
         allow me...
i really should wait for my ego to turn into
a phallus of slumbering pride,
but given the current situation in Sweden
    and me reading history of the deluge of Poland
by the Swedes, i'm sort of: hands in the air
with four thumbs signifying: i don't care.
   i like watching tennis,
it's the one sport where watching women is more
entertaining than watching men,
and it's not that you're even forced into it...
             women make more rallies in a match...
women tend to play with a double-handed forehand...
      but it really is a game based about 7 rectangles...
i'd love to see it as: Dali, dictates the rhombus
  at the Australian Open!
             i'd love to see it,
and i'd also love to see Oslo...
             but i'm not that bothered,
for all the media frenzy concerning western Europe,
i see Poland as a buffer zone smokescreen...
      the happenings at Ełk proved a point...
the dream of community translated into western
europe came so pronounced...
   people actually botehred to create a lynch mob...
the good "samaritan" had to die...
  and yes, the moroccan yielding the knife
was taken to a prison cell...
   but i guess knowing the polish language
i should feel more nationalistic pride in sweden being
gang-*****... it's an actual shame that i know
english and can't ingest the full potency of seeing
Sweden as it is... as i already said:
the deluge... by henry sienkiewicz...
    and later the recount by an incompetent king
in the works of kraszewski...
             but my: the tennis! it's spell-binding...
and the wine i made? it's digesting my brain to a proper
dehydration... and i love it!
              7 rectangles... and if the 7 rectangles
     were a circle, i'd be yearning for sumo!
           but no no, no... i'm, looking at these rabbits
represent a π radius squared movement,
given the matchsticks...
      i love tennis... it makes more sense watching
a female tennis match than it does a male one:
where it's always all about a fast serve and
           a quicker return... 7 rectangles, and these
fleshy vectors moving about the parameters...
           if i din't know a germanic language
i'd be gleeful, actually applauding the demise of
Sweden, having learned of the devestation
done to Poland by the Swedes in the deluge and
partition of the country, due to the House of Vasa...
it's a joke and i know it's a joke:
say i moved back to Poland and stirred up
    the national ghost?
                                     ha... ha ha... that would be
something...
          i'm a disciple of wine these days,
and i like watching tennis...
                         human history always meant
too much a case of: getting out of bed...
and hence my addiction: sleep...
as odd as it might sound, i'm actually addicted to it...
i'm a lion that pets two bonsai tigers...
    i have enough mane to laugh out a bellowing
word: lion! ha ha...
              but i sometimes like to retreat into
origins, and given i am highly volatile in my use of
english as an acquired tongue, i sometimes love to
re-acquire my ethnicity, and read a little bit of it...
how the Swedes desecrated Poland once upon a time...
how the Germans malnurished her with world war ii
and i... and i sort of love how Islam (for me), is
nothing but a chisel, a hammer... a useful idiot
that speaks more testicles and western female uninhibition
than anything... of boy... do i come across of grossly
nationalistic? i might have... oh gee!
   what a terrible plight!
                         but there's a secret theatre being staged
in Europe, most Americans don't know of it,
unless they managed to ask Joyce to **** his way
around a good translation of Finnegans Wake and
a whiskey bar in Krakow...  or ów... however you speak it...
     depends how you hide or don't hide
or expose the consonants...
                    and that's funny, most people find
the works of Kraszewski boring... to me they're the one
source of sanity having spent 3 weeks in Poland
over the holidays...
and why i invested my person in being bilingual...
   odd scare tactic: the usual typo of ****...
                        if you find the culture you're assimilating
into folding (in a poker sense), remain true to
the culture of your birth, keep the language...
you never know, you might have to move back
to the country of your birth... but only when you
see the host culture as *****-whipped... as England
is... or wait... antagonise the situation,
wait until they give up their capital,
and on the preiphery turn ultra-nationalistic in vox...
   i kept my native tongue, now i'm playing truant...
i have no symphany for the Swedes,
  and sympathy for England? well... if even events
in 1997 didn't happen... i might have more than
enough...
                   a Pole looks at the influx of Muslims to
Germany... and quiet frankly laughs...
                       it's not even a debate...
like the muslims talking about post-colonial
deconstructionalism...
                                     no wonder Russia has
come from the shadows to be the pawn-broker
of at least remaining true to the hunger
of media outlets... it just has to be there...
        so yeah, if you read kraszewski
and sienkiewicz, you might know a thing or two
about the Swedish deluge, that hit Poland
when John Casimir, of the house of Vasa
     "ruled" Poland at the time of the Cossack
uprising, magnified by the leadership of
      Khmelnytsky -
                but then again, all you hear in England
is the fate of the harem of the house of Tudor...
and how Charlie got shaved from owning a head,
and how Charlie Seconds had that
bad-*** poet in his pocket... john wilmot...
who i vaguely remember having cited
made epigram more noteworthy than an epitaph:
     we have a pretty witty king,
     and whose word no man relies on,
     he never said a foolish thing,
     and never did a wise one...

    great words demand the most despicable people
to invoke them... fortunately i live in a time
when great words can't be said,
because there are no great people to be surrounded with
in order that they might be despised...
   well, that is said in where i find solace,
exietential philosophy, for i do say: "fortunately",
as if i am borrowing something...
how can you write a poem, about a monarch,
when the monarch, as has happened with the english
crown, bid more toward philanthropy
than lechery? give me something i might want to esteem
in seeking out the basis for the basic human
depravity! you give me a monarch worth a penny's
toss into a hand of a pauper, you give me
a philanthropic king, and not a lecherous king...
you have sealed your existency,
by gauging out my eyes and giving them to worms,
and cut off my tongue, and lodged it, in the mosque
of a donkey's gob!
Man Nov 2023
I am not some peaceable ***-smoking hippy,
Or a hard-core punk inclined to rage away.
Similarly not a broker, with no share of a real trade
Or a developer of putrid estates
Different from some disaffected political nutcase
Radical revolutionary, only in the way
That I still have hopes for change
Katryna Dec 2018
hi,
first time?
no? hmmm
im siam and you are?
cold turkey.
cold turkey, nice name.

is that for real coz im starting to believe it.

sigh, of course not!
as if siam is your real name duh!

haha
do you want to go out and have life outside
or you just want to sit back and relax as if you enjoy all this ****?

what do you want siam?
im free.

sure!



*****?

no thanks,
im done with 1 bottle already.

weak!

kiddin, hi im oyster and you are?
oyster, sound scandal isnt it?

yah,
i know.

im free,

sure.

who am i?
rabbit?
cement?
who am i?

say it louder,
who am i?
pablo,
oslo,

just do it!

done.

same.

wait,

what's your name again?
it doesnt matter anyway,

call me whatever you like.
meet siam from the land of imagination.
siam is a 27 yrs old with no gender (feel free to guess
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2013
Fed me an omelette for dinner, oven-roasted tomatoes,
Smoked mozzarella, my fav, sliced so thin and layered in.
A focaccia roll, watermelon dessert.
It was her poem for me.
But that love devil kept refilling my glass, with her beloved
Summer rose wine.

I cleaned up for that's our deal, the one she never asked for, but is only
Fair in love.

Made it to the bed and Pandora.

About 30 seconds later, someone took my tablet from my arms, from my closing eyes, kissed me, and when I awoke at 4:00am, I recalled this from my sewing box.
Now, the poem*

There are kisses to keep

(Oct. 2010)

as I am laid to sleep,
there are kisses to keep,
gently placed on my
neck and head,
as I am tucked into bed,
travel packed,
well stored,
like important facts, safe kept,
as into the nether world
of the subconscious I am swept

Mid eve, tween nine and ten,
this runner's forward motion
is stopped short of the goal line,
but his mates, second surgers,
carry him on her shoulders,
his body do they extend,
victory celebrated with
eyes shut and
body prone,
his dream skills
well honed,
with kisses to keep,
he, dispatched to the battlefield,
Poetry Gods to meet,
daily actions,
submitted for peer review,
and perhaps!
promoted and gifted a daily add-on or
perhaps! Death's tenure secured?

Unwavering to sounds of song,
ancient paths retread,
till the front edge
of danger reached,
the TSA soul search commenced,

the child of ten times six,
drugs taken,
memory enhanced whispers of
revolution(s), circularity,
in headset stereo whispered.

his comrades George and John,
wounded to the death,
nighttime friends
greet this nightly stalker,
sojourner to the middle nether-lands,
with water and refreshments

Doth he survive,
Doth he return?

Of course he does,
dear friend and **** fool,
this nighttime essay,
his just reward
and another curse for
your forbearance

His safe return,
wounds
In need of tending,
kisses he receives from a
grateful nation of one,
kisses to keep safe as he
forwards on into
daytime battle of
interest rates,
to multiple fronts dispatched
and in ten long hours
he passes thru Ontario,
turns round, heads down
to samba in Rio De Janeiro,
and on his way to
New South Wales n' Sydney,
stops for herring
on the wharves of Oslo,
washed down with a pint
from his favorite pub in London town

He is short and caught?
He is long and wrong?
For sure he is stressed,
head messed, and when the whistle blows,
the words of his
prior excursion, the night version,
call and comfort,
for he attended again with the relief
of fresh and new
kisses to keep

Words of this ilk
have been penned before, by me, I am sure,
but too bad for you
and me too,
newer versions will continue
to appear, in order that
I may deserve
fresh kisses
to keep.

This will end when one of us dies.
August 2013
Boston Sydney Oslo London Berlin Montreal Ibiza Stockholm Lisbon Dublin....where are you?..Chicago Madrid Turin Liverpool....I need you home!....Tokyo India Rio Helsinki Milan Botswana....please come home....Gibraltar Alice Springs Zurich Tel Aviv St Helier Jerusalem....I really miss you x
SG Holter Oct 2014
Rain wet pavements are mirrors to
Yellow lights and subtle neon.
Click-clacks of women in a hurry,
Even the taxi drivers are too
Tired to use their horns.

Leaves the size of Samson's hands
Keep dropping around me,
Sticking to the ground
As if glued into the scrapbook
Of autumn.

Somewhere between cold and
Not. Winter and fall.
Morning and night.
Alone in a world full of others
Than me.
Alexa Sz Apr 2010
I sat upon the soft detailed carpet
we rose into the air
out of the window
seeing the world
New York, Rome, Greece, Paris, London, Tibet, Beijing,
Budapest, Oslo, Munich, India, African plains, Jerusalem, West Bank, etc
What was the best is the people and the culture
how different each one is but yet wanting the same thing
riding the magic carpet made me think about how everyone
in the world
could work together
to make peace
but there is still those internal
disagreements
peace between enemies
hurts further

In real life I was my imagination
and the carpet was my dream
the future is my hope
Street Walker in Oslo

As the black-winged night occupies my balcony
and spread its wings in triumph and shop lights
try in vain to illuminate and gladden a grubby street
I see you leaving your flat and begin your night shift
As you walk past splashes of yellow light,
I can see your white powdered face has not yet
settled into its customary inviting grin and your
lips are a machete slash where blood has coagulated
into lumps long ago.
Dressed in red tonight in the hope of attracting
rampant lust, but since you are an old bird
you are reduced to service those with a putrid need
for violence, but even in your disgrace I know
your heart is pure.
The Hideous Heart of Scandinavia

Morning in Oslo, from my hotel room I see many roofs
most of them of the same design; tidy, I wondered if they
employed a roof sweeper.
Social democracy in action cold and efficient not given
to surface passion, even their homegrown terrorists is
boring but dangerous.
Streets in Oslo are clean too so spotless they look
somehow defenceless and slightly obscene.
The citizens are restraint, tolerantly wait for traffic light
to turn green so the can cross even if no cars are coming.
But there is another Oslo especially at weekends
when people drink an enormous about of beer fight breaks
out and knives shine in moonlit nights.
The lust for ****** hark backs to a shared cataleptic
memory; and you know there is a pent-up passion
In the hideous heart of Scandinavia
Terry Collett Apr 2015
Dalya couldnt even bring herself to be nice to the Yank girl anymore it was as much as she could do to even look at her with her dark hair and eyes and that ******* tight black leather two piece which made her skinnier than a runt and that accent seeming straight out of some American movie and the constant yak about the guys shed had and how that was the worse part the how of it all as if Dalya cared as if she gave a sod about the Yanks love life and that time they showered at the Oslo camp base and the Yank said *** how plump you are like a hippo bathing and she laughed and Dalya gave her a look that would have frozen another more sensitive ***** but no she laughed at Dalya and her so called humour and Dalya would have flicked her towel around the Yanks scrawny **** but another girl passing got in the way and it flicked her **** instead and O did she moan and the Yank ***** walked off swaying if one can sway a backside like hers and was gone or that time when Dalya had been out with a guy called Benny who rode the same mini bus as the Yank and Dalya had got back in the tent real late and the Yank said what time do you call this some of us need our beauty sleep and Dalya said you could sleep for thousand years and still be one heck of an ugly Yank ***** and the Yank stormed out into the night or early morning which ever it was and Dalya lay in her tent trying to sleep after shed gone when Benny creeps in and said the American girls gone in the Aussie guy and is in my sleeping bag and theyre doing things which I wont describe least not before breakfast and so he came in to the tent with Dalya and Dalya seethed and swore and Benny said did you want me to leave but Ill have to sleep in the bar area as shes in my tent with him so Dalya said ok but no funny business and he said I don t do funny business and lay there in the tent where the Yank girl used to lay and she seemed determined not to let him get too near but at the time the birds were beginning to sing and she still being awake she said to him if you want to come nearer we can keep warm against this ground frost or so it seems and he said sure why not and moved next to her and they hugged and one thing led to another and well shed not be telling her mother when she got home that aspect of her holiday and hoped to God her brother didnt see Benny come out of her tent in the morning and next morning when she showered in the base camp the ***** was there washing off her sins with the Aussie guy laughing  and acting like some latter day Joan Crawford and Dalya glared at her the way her skinny arms were wrapped about her rake thin body and love bites around her neck and tiny **** and Dalya thought God what a sight and that time on the ship from Oslo to Amsterdam and Dalya stood on the deck as the waves rose and fell and the ***** of good old USA was puking over the side and O that was good Dalya thought that was a scream and she looked green and looked as if she'd puke up her ring and Dalya smiled to  herself and later when they landed in Amsterdam Benny and Dalya sought out a cafe and sat and drank coffee and ate a couple of burgers and she said how would you rate the *** the other night in my tent? and Benny said how rate? and she said from one to ten one being utter crap to ten being ****** heaven and Benny thought as he drank his coffee and said well its as near to Heaven as Ill get is it better than having the Yank *****? she asked I dont what she humps like but Id say yes with you it was heaven and Ok she said dont let my brother know or hell tell my mother and then shell go off the deep end you know what mothers are like with their daughters and it was in Amsterdam that the good old American girl split saying she was meeting some French guy in Paris the **** ***** Dalya said she must have a ****** like a drinking hole in the Sahara and Benny said nothing but wondered why women worried about each other like that why they couldnt be more like guys who just think lucky guy wish I could be pimple on his **** while hes going it some then as the camping trip was coming to an end and they were on the last leg of the trip at the last and final base camp and she had her tent to herself she invited Benny in for a final fling but before that they went to the base camp bar and bought a good deal of the ***** and staggered back to the tent and she said you know what? and he said no and she said well lie down and Ill tell you and so Benny lay down on the tent floor next to her and she said I was ****** by my cousin once it was at a birthday party at my parents house and me and him- his name must be kept hush hush- had a little must of  my fathers punch drink and we went up to my bedroom-I slept alone- and I thought it would just be kissing but no one thing led to another and next thing I remember we were ******* away like two hounds on heat and the music was still being pumped from downstairs and singing and laughter and Benny said I wish Id been there I could have made it a ******* but Dalya said it was a bad enough him being there ******* away and she looked past him at the dull sky of their last day.
A GIRL AND A BOY ON A CAMPING TRIP THROUGH EUROPE IN 1974
Mark Jun 2020
LUCKY 13 BIG TRIP DIP
From the 12th diary entry of Stewy Lemmon's childhood adventures.

This week my whole family, Smoochy and I, all headed off by car, to the annual big city fair on Friday the 13th. Some people believe an unlucky day of the year and an unlucky number for most. It was a big trip for the whole family, which took about two hours and twenty-five minutes to get there. But, we all still looked forward to it coming around each year, despite the long drive.

I had been to the big city fair, for every year that I can remember. My parents have been going there, every year since they were my age. I thought, 'Man, they must be old now, maybe one hundred and two years old or even a lot more'.

The food stalls were packed full of snacks and different makes of cakes and all kinds of different, yummy-in-your-tummy things, for us kids to eat.

There were stalls selling: Creamy Caramel Cup-Cakes, Limited Edition Lollipop Layered Lamington's and even some, short, swirly, Shortbread Slices. Even, my mum and two, much older, identical, twin sisters, Emma and Jemma, had set up their very own food stall. They, were selling heaps of my colourful creation named, 'A Colourful Take-Away Fruit-Blast In A Bag'.

They, were even selling, clear plastic cups along with a spiral-shaped straw.

But, only for the people, who emailed me for the secret, Jiggy-Jiggy Side-Kick Creation instructions, which was in my third diary entry named, 'Water off a Ducks Back'. Only then, will you remember what the plastic cups are for and how to perform the all important, Jiggy-Jiggy.

There were so many fun rides at the annual big city fair, for all of the kids to enjoy. Like the dodgem cars, a jumping castle and the pirate ship, 'my favourite ride of all time'. I loved sitting at the very back of the pirate ship because, it made me feel really funny in the tummy.

Towards the end of the day, my dad, had bought a ticket in the, Big city annual lucky dip first prize, surprise raffle. He had never been lucky in the big city raffle, all of the previous years before. So, this time, he didn't pick his usual lucky number 7, but instead he picked number 13 and guess what? 'He won the first prize surprise'.

We all went to see what the first prize was, at this year's annual lucky dip surprise raffle. It was a family holiday to thirteen of the world's most colourful cities. The whole family screamed, with joy. But, I then slapped my face a little and said to myself, 'Is this another dream of mine'? 'Nope! this one's for real', mum told me, with glee.

The day had arrived, for the start of our colourful, lucky-dip, big 13, city trip adventure. We had, packed all our bags and I even put in my dad's trusty, fancy, far out, funny binoculars and my very, super, sporty, single-shot, stylish slingshot. Just in case, I needed them both on our exciting city adventures.

My two, much older, identical, twin sisters, Emma and Jemma, had packed their bags full of makeup, creams and a hair styling dryer. While, Lemmy, had his bag packed by our dear mum, Flo, along with her own. While, dad went to his unusually built and outrageously painted, backyard, outback, shed and gathered his tools and paint brushes for the trip.

We headed to the airport, to start our first leg of our adventure to London England. On the first day, we went to visit the queen, in her very large house named, Buckingham Palace. The palace guard's face's didn't move one bit. Even, when dad, tried to make them laugh, with a funny joke or pulling faces at them, to make them smile.

Then, off we went, to see Big Ben. It was built years ago along the river Thames. We, then went to see some old rocks called, Stonehenge. Nobody knows exactly, why they were made. Their just placed, all alone, located in the middle of a large field, gathering moss and all still on show.

We then took a ferry ride across the English Channel and hopped off in the Netherlands. We all stayed in the very colourful city of Amsterdam. Mum, loved all of the beautiful flowers and my two, much older, identical, twin sisters, Emma and Jemma, especially loved trying the, unusual sweet cakes and drinks in the many cafes all spread about town. While dad, Lemmy, Smoochy and I, really enjoyed riding the bikes along the paths, on the side of the long and winding canals.

Then, we went to the beautiful, but cold country of Norway. We stayed in the capital city of Oslo. We took a boat ride through the icy fjords and I even thought, I saw that whale that winked at me, on that adventurous day out at, Slip-Slop-Slap Bay.

We then went by bus up north to see the Aurora Lights. Wow! what a sight. It was like daytime, even at ten thirty at night.

I even thought maybe, Stefan Pettersson from North Poland the ski instructor at Shivermytimbers Ski Lodge, lived close to here.

Next city was Paris the city of lights in the country of France. We went up the Eiffel Tower and I pulled out dad's fancy homemade binoculars from my bag and had such wonderful views of the city and then took a taxi for a ride through the streets of Paris and even went under the historical Arc of Triumph. Then we all went to see the great artwork and sculptures at a place called the Louvre. We saw a serious painting of a sad lady named Moaning Lisa; at least that's what I think the tour guide said.

The next morning we boarded a small plane and landed in the very watery city of Venice in Italy. I thought we were going to land on water, just like Buck the Duck does back at the small village pond. The city is surrounded by water and everyone travels by a small boat called a gondola which weavestheir way through the water canals and under all the old bridges. Smoochy even climbed up into the top left-hand side pocket of the Italian man sailing the boat, to get a better view. The food was so colourful in Italy, like the spaghetti, pizzas and delicious and colourful gelato.

Egypt was our next adventure stop and we went to the ancient city of Cairo. The very old Pyramids were out of this world, with precision angles and stones that fitted together ever so well. A cruise on the long Nile River was very exciting to see as well. It went from one end of the country to the other, but we only travelled on it for a mile or so.

Then off to Thailand and to the capital city named Bangkok, the busiest city of them all. There were cars, taxis, two wheeled motorbikes and funny three wheeled colourful ones called

Tuk-tuks. There was traffic and people everywhere we went and a lot of confusion by the Lemmon's when trying to cross the busy streets. We even visited some very old Buddhist Temples in the countryside and had some lunch that was extremely hot stuff, which made us all, puff. They gave us bread and water to cool our mouths down afterwards. Mum said, oh what a colourful and spicy city it is, and I love there ancient culture and friendliness of their people.

Off to the big red and easy going country of Australia tomorrow. We visited a place in the middle of nowhere called Alice Springs, which was in the Northern Territory of Australia. The next day we climbed up a rock named Uluru that was a sacred area for Aboriginals, the original inhabitants of Australia. We took a trip to a beautiful area up north of the Northern Territory called Kakadu National Park. Where we saw big red kangaroos, crocodiles and even some emus. One kangaroo even to try and box dad, but dad ran away and said, ‘He would fight him, but he forgot his gloves’.

We then headed off to China and the island of Hong Kong. What a very old and colourful city it was, with so many colourful buildings to see. In the large harbour we saw painted fishing and food boats cruising around.

Brazil Rio de Janeiro was next and we even saw the famous Carnival, with people dancing to a very cool beat. All dressed up and having the best party of all time. Down on the beach people were swimming and surfing and lying about in the sun. We even went to see a football match with USA v Cameroon playing, oh so well, for the winner would get its hand on a large world cup. We also saw a very large statue of an important man perched on a mountain.

USA was the last country to visit before our adventures would come to an end. We landed in Los Angeles and went straight to the magical kingdom of Disneyland. We did a day tour of Universal Studios where they make all the great movies.

Off to Nevada we drove and stayed one night in the ever so bright Las Vegas, oh what colourful sites we saw from our seventeenth floor suite hotel window. There were so many colourful casinos stretched out as long as you could see which light up at night alright. Dad even said you could see the lights from outer space. The next day we took a flight over the Grand Canyon in a Hot Air Balloon. We saw beautiful waterfalls and even saw people on donkeys riding down far down below.

New York was our last city to visit; it was especially dad's favourite city, because his ancestors had lived there for years, before coming to live in our village of Shimmerleedimmerlee to start a family, all those years ago.

The Empire State Building was an historic tall building that even once had a gorilla on top making a movie. Statue of Liberty was so fun to climb up and see all the lights of New York from across the Hudson River.

We took a horse drawn carriage ride in Central Park and even saw a memorable garden for the ex-Beatle John Lennon.

While travelling the New York subway to get to Soho we saw some great graffiti artwork sprayed on council approved walls.

The next day we were heading back home, which is nestled amongst the trees on a hill, in a little country village, called Shimmerleedimmerlee.
© Fetchitnow
20 October 2019.
This children’s fun adventure book series, is only for children from ages, 1-100. So please enjoy.
Note: Please read these in order, from diary entry 1-12, to get the vibe of all of the characters and the colourful sense of this crazy mess.
LJ May 2016
In Lisbon, we blended
ended the day with spectacular culinary
Shopped and hopped side to side

In Dublin, we vented
as the whisky and Guinness was **** good
Shipped the hire car to Galway

In Italy, we invented
dropped coins in fountains of love we already held
From Florence, to Milan, to Rome, to Bologna

In Paris, I rented
alone in protests and hippies at Place De La Republique
Dreamt of you as they skated

In Romania, I persisted
up on the icy Tranfagarasan highway traps
I saw a bear and it had your eyes

In Stockholm, we insisted
As the Vasa sunk on tables of *****
Pecked on the trains and shied away.

In London, we protested
It was an ordinary day and the flowers didn't bloom
The Thames was gloomy and stale

In Oslo, we transmitted
The reindeer meal and cranberry was a disaster
The gloom followed us to southern skies

In Copenhagen, you were sorted
Smiled and amused by the Tivoli gardens
The night became day and the wind withered

In Amsterdam, we did what we did
Stored the memories on the reclaimed lands
Free-spirited in love and in eternity
Craig Harrison Aug 2014
A is for Athens
B is for Berlin
C is for Cairo
D is for Dublin
E is for Edinburgh
F is for Fukishima
G is for Guangzhou
H is for Helsinki
I is for İstanbul
J is for Johannesburg
K is for Kiev
L is for London
M is for Madrid
N is for New York
O is for Oslo
P is for Paris
Q is for Quito
R is for Riga
S is for Shanghai
T is for Tokyo
U is for Ulan Bator
V is for Vancouver
W is for Washington
X is for Xianyang
Y is for Yerevan
Z is for Zagreb

Travel the world
see these places
meet new people
make new friends
take photos
make memories
always be happy
The wood lay quiet as I passed
those thin wan trees in semi dark
their twigs are missing due to lack of light
they stretch up high to see the sky
a chorus group in brown
perhaps atop they have some leaves
when it is summertime

but now they're entertained
by flowers of blue and yellow celandine
when winters gales take hold
they're made like instruments to knock and crack
or through their branches
winds create a sound of mystery
aeolian harp  

I do not know
but when I stand and sense their presence close
they seem to whisper peace to me
those strands of coloured trunks
and so I meditate in line
as if I too were one of them
on the fence inclined

Margaret Ann Waddicor 7th April 2016
I had to go through this little wood, leaving the road with its rushing cars, sensing the stillness of these trees in contrast, and it was just before doing Tai Chi, it seemed to fit the mood.
SG Holter Aug 2017
She moved since then,
But between where we got off
The tram, and her place,
There was a tiny place that sold
Sushi.

Walking through that smell,
Pavement still wet with rain
Outside,
We more often than not
Sent me back out

With her dog Shelby
To do her business. I  
Tied her to the
Street-thing outside, left
Tips and our pride with

The shop, and returned  
With a walk-content dog and
Too much sushi. She would
Have candles lit; Jeff Buckley
Playing,

Looking at Shelby and I as
If we had been gone for
******* ever as we came in.
"You hungry?"
She'd laugh, hug me, command

The dog to bed, me to sofa.
"Thank you."
We'd eat. Open a bottle from her
Impeccable stash.
I bought it. I brought it.

I never ate before her first bite.
SG Holter Sep 2014
I love the city this time on a weekday,*
She says, looking around at the
Empty shadows between orange
Streetlights.

Her first business trip, only
Stockholm this time.
London later.
I carry her suitcase.

After kisses and goodbyes,
I head back to
Her empty place.
Could catch a few hours of

Sleep, but I know I won't.
That bed needs her in
It, to be justified as one.
I'll write instead.

I never feel as  
Alone as I am,
When
I do.
SG Holter Feb 2015
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.
Terry Collett Jun 2015
At Oslo
at the camp
after a

downpour of
heavy rain
Dalya said

there's a
hole in my
canvas tent

and the rain
comes right in
and the *****

I share with
moans at me
then goes off

and shares with
that Aussie
who she likes

and leaves me
to the wet
you can share

my tent if
you don't mind
as the bloke

I shared with
shares with that
German girl

I thought she
was Polish?
Dalya said

no German
I replied
she told me

her father
drove a tank
in the war

that's why the
Polish girl
and her mum

have nothing
to do with
her in camp

O I see
Dalya said
so she slept

in my tent
but I won't
share your bed

she told me
but what she
later did

-have hot ***-
is not quite
what she said.
A MAN AND WOMAN IN OSLO IN 1974.
SG Holter Oct 2015
This was once a construction site.
Unpainted concrete walls, skeleton of
A building exposed.

Now most floors are inhabited;
Offices in use as if they'd always
Been this clean and complete.

Some sections are still unfinished, and
The few of us still working here are
Alien shadows in filthy workwear,

Ghosts from the slow birth of a
Fraction of the Oslo cityscape.
Rugged midwives

Not fitting in with the suits and
Dresses we sometimes pass in the
Corridors.

So strange, the scent of perfume and
Female products. No more diesel and
Dust here these days.

My colleague flips his cigarette **** on
The pavement outside the entrance,
Stealing a gaze at a passing skirt.

*I love the sound of
High heels in the
Morning.
SG Holter Feb 2015
Sunday afternoon, Oslo.
Pavements fit for ice skating
Rather than her high heels.

I am crutch.
Sun-goes-down red onto
The solid wetness.

As we reach the tram stop,
She throws a gaze directly into
My eyes, fingertip finding the outline

Of the fresh tattoo on my chest
Barely visible at the edge of the
White tank top under my

Alice in Chains tribute-style
Flannel shirt.
"I love the way it covers up her

Name,"
I know she
Thinks but doesn't
Say, and I

Agree. Sometimes the temple walls
Of a man's body's skin are no
More sacred than the

Bucket of paint sitting ready
Outside a basement bar's
Gentlemen's toilet cubicle, just

Waiting for
The
Janitor.
SG Holter Nov 2014
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.
SG Holter May 2014
I am writing this as
I stand -beer in hand- watching
Neil Gaiman being

Interviewed on stage in
Oslo. He has more to say
Than many, to poets

And those living lives; others.
"Writing is like composting.  
You have an idea. You

Leave it to rot... and
Things will grow
From it."
Oslo. May 26th, 19.27ish, 2014.
SG Holter Aug 2015
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.
In the midst of all there is to live
The crawling uncertainty, the laziness of souls
The crippling doubt that rules us all
Her gaze is shown, a lighthouse wearing a red stole

Hours reduced to seconds and not much to spare
A sip of winter ***, delicate move of hands, hips unbound
Fingers slip, chocolate lipped, spurred moments
Tamed desires unleashing round breast-bites on empty appetites
Quickening shivers, last minute kiss and our time is undelivered

Words amounting to clichés and graceful, still, is her face
The provoked eyes of adolescence delight my wary ghost
I no longer linger in uncertain realities
Raise a glass to the possibilities and what to come
In the shadows I find you, my cure
For you see, my disintegration never had a meaning
So let us dwell between uncertain realities, least we find ourselves a host

One year amounting to a lifetime
Dreams of promised serenity are greater still
What lies beneath the Arabian sun? Nothing but Imprisoned spirits, enslaved birds and wild ignorance
Larger than life talks of reform, crumbling yet, in our first test

Remembrance of past ways
Everything fate has in store for us
Even odds were aligned in phases
Mountains of passion sprung high

I’m a spectator, you control my letters

Little by little, unnerved attempts
Oceans of black uncharted seas
Various letter arrangements and lines
Eventually leading to the sublime

Your embrace and my sea metaphors
Oslo awaits, but waves won’t abate
Until one day, when our minds abide

— The End —