The battlefield
November 25th, 2013
The desert weapon cracked with the silence pouring out. You should cry less, sister. You should be more patient, brother. The trees colour the bodies sucked empty of passion. The field, voided of battle, mourns. The wind blowing through scattered pipes. The sand dust covers the blood. Never the satisfaction of the last fight, save passing illusion.
Lay with slow infrequent breaths – a sky left to marvel. No voice, no intonation, what travels, travels without a trace. The land ruined plain, waters polluted. Shut down the machine, fuck trying. Truth enter the scene. Can’t fight it, can’t break that. The beauty stands small, even less in duration.
Close your eyes, friend. Shit’s over.
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The map
November 5th, 2013
Finish with black. Start with dust. Make an invisible passage between. Leaking white, English red, Old red, usual grey – add channels for infinite rains. Lose your belongings on a way. Lose the scriptures of your mind, exchange the heart for a bunch of stars and some grass. Fill your stomach with silence and fluorescent void. Lengthen your legs, rubber your arms. Bind your hair into seventeen knots. Uncover all scars, even the ones you are ashamed of. Collect the waste bits, trash parts, empty the folds. Don’t be scared of ensuing weightlessness, don’t be afraid of getting blown away. Make mountain your equal. A water – your model of moving. A night – your way of seeing. A forest – your way of talking.
Don’t think, think off.
Open the gates of the city.
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The weapon
October 23rd, 2013
Forge the weapon from brass. Brass of inscribed plates, second hand instruments, statues pulled down by changing regimes. Brass of indefinite ages, indiscernible dedications, soaked with sounds, that could not quite make it, abused by birdshit, whether noble or monstrous.
Keep the pieces in a barn or some other undivided house space. Let them taste each other. So as to make the great poet who lived on the street of Paris feel the cold of the plate that a homeless woman used as a rug when begging. So as to let the notes of Coltrane wannabe, who ended up as a an underpaid carpenter, rush out through the holes of unfinished series of cups. Let them mingle. Hell! Put them by the nearest river on a wet grass. Till they shiver, till they shine. Bang them by throwing pieces off the rocks. Pile them into the trailer and pour out in a city square, wait a time it takes you to finish off couple shots of whisky. Don’t force it. Let them open up as they come.
A scientist can wait, a trumpet can signal the place of their transformation. be patient, be passionate. Resilient in your work, joyous in a night vision. Let the pieces form a net, a brotherhood.
They will let you know, when they are warm enough to join together, without dissolving in the excess of the heat.
Watch saxophone slowly acquiring fingers, a head turning into the table. Laugh, if you feel like, at the childish amusement of the pieces as they make love to each other, get to be each other.
Don’t hold anything back, let the ones, which happen to be on a way of leaving, go .
Watch closely as they form cells of various kinds, learn the formlessness of its path. The degree of success will depend on your knowledge of the life it took the brass pieces to become flexible and stealthy.
Have a beer, for the speed of fluttering builds up. Shake the rust off. Breathe the skies. Comes the time, when you won’t be alone, ever. Enjoy the approaching cool.
Smile, sister, it senses what you mean.
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J(e)une Oslo
October 17th, 2013
An old homeless man clipping his nails
on the park bench,
observed carefully by a one eyed
dog chewing on a stick
of a birch
A dirty, close to carnal death,
woman slumbers past first
warm beams of the year,
a mongrel pigeon picking the remnants
of last night, scattered on the
cracked pavement
Collect the ghosts, spectres, heart pieces
Assemble lost ones, never have been ones,
random obscure ones,
sacred in bullshit ones
Have them disorder the pace
of the water,
build a power(of )less plant on banks
of a forgotten river,
have them pour their liquids out
on the joint screws
Have them group their spills
into the buckets of inception
Uncheck the locks
and let it roll
May the flow produced incite
all the church organs of the city
to start at nine,
peak at noon,
hold the drone for the rest of
the day,
open up a sky
at midnight,
so that the stolen parts of
their lives, their dreams,
the stolen spirit of their
heartbeat
comes flowing down the
roaming pipes
Let the city drink it
Let them get soaked to the edges of their skin
Give them all the night
to celebrate
Move away at six in the morning
Here – three immeasurable hours
for the unbeen of the world
to come and take a chance.
M(a)y Oslo
October 4th, 2013
Thoughts that will be forgotten in a glass of bitter beer
Sentiments never, almost, felt again as whisky
warms up between your palms
Words deleted, wine turning to acid
Chosmos and the river running through
the heart of the city – as dead as the anger, the river -
absent of fish, bugs or plants,
only the lame duck stupid duck
crossing it
above and besides the waste floating
while joggers pass by, oblivious to the
end of the day,
that has already sprung
already spread its wings
Bite off the fat, crunch the onion,
swallow the vodka,
digesting nostalgia with a piece
of black bread
Let the water become silent
Ap(e)ril Oslo
September 12th, 2013
Empty, almost empty,
in out,
less so in, more out,
all the liquids.
The shit, the blood, the piss,
the spit, the vomit, the drool.
All the liquids out,
empty out.
Come last water
Off the virgin bridge
Wordless
September 4th, 2013
The words she used to bind him the words he used to fuck her with. The words he could look into the eyes of his son the words she could smuggle her love with.
The words that could slit a throat, a wrist, cut the belly up. The words he used so he won’t have to beg. The words that made a day less clear, more dear.
The words that kept the night in check, never as black so as to swallow itself. The words that divided, united, transferred, put useless time in place.
The words he beat her for the first time with.
The words that should have lead her out. The words he could have used to fight his father with.
The words she made up, almost silent ones, to let it become what it had become.
The words that slowly abandoned the house, leaving it scream, moan, shriek, leaving it whisper.
The words that became inaudible, autophagous.
She, he, he, he abandoned to it. Becoming it. No words to reach it.
The blue is mad. The house is wordless.
Still
August 29th, 2013
Out of nothing this black. Always, as black likes, out of the nothing. It does not matter whether it’s who or what that is carrying it. Who is what and every what can become who.
I can move by the black, thread it, matters only that I know how I don’t. through the door, the wall or the tiny window, come chance will be sure. In hunger, half-legged, forgotten and have forgiven, overcome, throughcome I the black. Keep saying, picking the bones off the chill floor. My child, my love, she will feign off the black, promise.
I do. Still.
Almost
July 30th, 2013
Always with food. No hunger. Since I a child. Like a father, almost. Not gentle, though not crude either. Would come with a kettle, say eat, read a book. Show a toilet. I would do. Then sit behind the house, in front of my hut, count the trees. To five, then five more, a lot of fives. Trees green most of the time. Birds, and beasts, say don’t go further, for the beasts. I would not. Rather read. Beasts there enough. And else. No need to go. Would eat, read, toilet. Count to fives and fall asleep. Dream of things I can’t tell clearly. Sometimes crying. Laughing. Would say – don’t cry, it’s just a dream. Give me a pancake. Be there. Just be there. And so for many times – more than fives I know about.
Then stopped coming. Would look for in the house, but nothing. Pick some grass, some leaves. Sleep so much more so as to lose the count of times. Then stop counting, for if fall asleep besides the hut – fear of a beast. Would stay inside. Mostly laying down. Not read. Not dream. Nothing to count. But the still. No beast here. It will come, father.
Almost.
Not Yet
July 19th, 2013
Tired so as to remember almost nothing. A face, a short duration of a face in a dim light, if that. Then cold. Keep on running from cold. Sleep standing. Always sleep standing, can’t let them see you down. No! Won’t see me down. Won’t see me tell you anything. None of my youth, my fighting, none of what I know, of what I become. Can’t beat me, can’t beat me down. When cold over, sun upcoming and wake, when it dares, maybe.
No yet.