"oslo" poems
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
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 7:58 PM UTC
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.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 5:14 PM UTC
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.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC
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!
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 9:20 AM UTC
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.
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 6:59 AM UTC
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
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 7:50 AM UTC
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...
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 5:05 AM UTC
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
Apr 23, 2010
Apr 23, 2010 at 8:10 AM UTC
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
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 6:05 PM UTC
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
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 7:29 PM UTC
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.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 2:47 AM UTC
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.
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 11:11 PM UTC
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.*
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 3:24 AM UTC
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.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 1:30 PM UTC
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.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 4:09 AM UTC
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."
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 1:22 PM UTC
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
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC
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.
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 10:17 AM UTC
Con ciudades y autores frecuentadosVenecia / Guanajuato / Maupassant /
Leningrado / Sousándrade / Berlín /
Cortázar / Bioy Casares / Medellín /
Lisboa / Sartre / Oslo / Valle Inclán /
Kafka / Managua / Faulkner / Paul Celan /
Ítalo Svevo / Quito / Bergamín /
Buenos Aires / La Habana / Graham Greene /
Copenhague / Quiroga / Thomas Mann /
Onetti / Siena / Shakespeare / Anatole
France / Saramago / Atenas / Heinrich Böll /
Cádiz / Martí / Gonzalo de Berceo /
París / Vallejo / Alberti / Santa Cruz
de Tenerife / Roma / Marcel Proust /
Pessoa / Baudelaire / Montevideo
1.3k
(Monday morning, on the roof of an Oslo construction site.)
~
Seagull. Filthy peace flag screaming
His own name upon the city.
*It is I! Eater of scraps, leaver of
Droppings!
Sword beak, dagger tallons!
Anti-raven! White blood cell of
Your airborne bloodstream.
The skies would be half a chess
Board in my absence!*
I sit on the rooftop drinking water,
Listening to him echo between
Tired buildings.
Norwegian city morning.
Sunny and cold.
I watch the red of mist muffled light
On his wings as he soares towards
The bay for his fifth breakfast.
Today will be an interesting day,
I whisper to my soul as I empty the
Bottle and stand up.
A conductor tapping his baton against
His note stand, raising hands and an
Eyebrow to the orchestra.
Get your Monday in tune, and the week
Will follow accordingly.
Seagull. Filthy peace flag.
Declaring himself victorious
With his every forceless breath.
~
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 3:36 AM UTC
*it's just a selfie... don't forget my face is mandible and is non-representative of whatever idealism you have of dundee / glasgow. you ever noticed it's only paris that's mentioned in 20th century classic literature? oi! **** why not oslo schweggenladder stockholm or edinbrugh? so 20th century of you to mention any place south of london.*
when i hear modern poets wheeze and ooh and ah
and climb the everest... i think of the bee gees
or michael jackson, not one wrote the illiad... but it’s
still memorised - what’s the point...
poetry begins with the thought:
i can rhyme bling with bee sting... **** i’m in!
heave of relief interlude with abba’s super trouper
in the background to breivik’s slaughter...
now that’s taking satire to the extreme of absurdism:
you know that french thinking movement
that changed hammering a nail in with the elbow
rather than the hammer.
‘orchestra!’
‘ yes maestro?!’
‘play me the divination of vivaldi in #strauss for winter!’
‘yes maestro!’
‘ah the autumnal leaf waltz via psychadelia
of femininity given to the beast of feminism
of lost ego, what splendour... and the reindeer,
ah... it’s only missing the alcohbolic reindeer of the
puffed-up cheeks and red noses of burst veins to hue
the canvas of red with streaks of blue.’
as benny hill said... it’s not called black english humour
for reasons that might suggest it was the oxford rowing
team losing against h.m.s. belfast that made the cambridge rowing
team sing the chritmas carols in halloween costumes:
the wise pumpkin, skeleton and hybrid tarantula sang
in soprano: the shepherds put on castrato opera for a reason
that became apparent with roman authorities despising
celibacy but turning quiet fond of castration for the pope's opera:
plus the **** orgams sounded more feminine with
guilottined ********
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 9:04 PM UTC
Dalya met Baruch in Oslo,
a small cafe in a back street;
he was eating a cream cake
and coffee. She was fuming
over the Yank ***** that she
shared a tent with back at
base camp. It’s like sharing
with a scented skunk, she said.
Baruch listened, the fiery girl
sat opposite him, stirred her
latte, spat out words. Baruch
was halfway through the Gulag
book, the Solzhenitsyn eye
opener on the labour camps
of Russia. Dalya’s gripe seemed
pretty shallow; her language
left little to the imagination,
rough words, hard chipped,
chiselled out of rock sort of thing,
he thought, watching her mouth
move the words. Always about
the men she’s had, Dalya said,
as if I cared a monkey’s. Baruch
forked in more cake, fingered
off cream from his upper lip
and licked. They’d picked up
the American in Hamburg,
squeezed her into the overland
truck with the others. And oh,
yes, where she's been, Dalya said,
she’s been under the Pope’s
armpit, no doubt. She sipped
the latte, stared at Baruch, her
eyes dark blue, her lips thin, her
hair dark and curled. Maybe she
has, Baruch said, but what’s it to
you? I have to hear her jabbering
on in the tent night after night,
Dalya said, and me trying to get
to sleep. You can always swap with
me, he said, she can share with
the Aussie prat, who’s in with me.
She didn’t reply, but looked at her
latte, stirred with the plastic spoon.
And what would my brother say?
He’d tell the parents when we got
home. Baruch knew her brother
wouldn’t have minded, he was often
drinking and drunk till blinded.
Baruch had only suggested it in
jest, nothing really meant, but she
was preferable to the Aussie in his tent.
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 8:37 AM UTC
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.
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 3:33 AM UTC