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
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.

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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

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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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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July 3rd, 2013

Clothless. Black ink on its hardened muscles. Never a thing out of its mouth. Stands in a rain. Comes as it goes. Swings at times, when not scared enough to lay on the floor, looking at it slowly rocking. The feet scarred, may have come through the forest and the streets. From the mountains or the sea. Come to rock outside my hut. Dusk and dawn it is here. Might be a king or a queen for all I can tell, a glimpse. Never moves feet when seen. Nods and shakes big head. No eyes, can’t dare to know eyes. Yes, huge neck.
Whenever it wants, comes and stands rocking.
Never closer.

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Vagabond bit 3

May 31st, 2013

Some days that pass as sand nights do, you’re so alone that you have no choice but look for a single thought. Or, if you consider thinking to be lonesome activity, for a line, not so much a words’ one, but an aural one. There must be one somewhere out, you assume. It can’t be that you are deserted and all one – if that were the case, you’d be with all gone ones, not knowing it. Having this as a sort of a beacon, you wander in the grey looking for a black or a white one to pulse out. So you can take its stead, cling yourself to it, have it sway you, even if violently – better in a pained chamber than the grey. You never pull up, mow the black or the white ones. You give yourself to it, give yourself up, let it have you, let it make you obsolete, a trashed one. At this line of miniscule proximity (as well as distance) you lay your bones so as to have the resonance pass through the tips of the nerves of the crossed body.
Something start flowing from the double wound, as you lose the memory grip of the day, the grey and the lone something that is neither white nor black.
You can’t name it, won’t spell it out, just have it bend you, stretch you out. You are becoming a line now, let the else one find, what colour it has become, what colour it will become.

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Vagabond bit 2

May 20th, 2013

One can lose one’s dream. To find it empty. This is called  a deep sleep. To have your dream withered away.
One can also dream someone else’s dream. Now this does not necessarily imply the existence of that someone else, only her dream.
I, having no horse, have dreamt the sorrow of a woman whose horse has hurt his leg.  I, being that woman in a dream, have cried  and felt deeply for the horse, who might not be able to run again since he was very old. (Now, I assume that the woman, whose dream I was dreaming, has lost a horse because of a vision of the same horse in a dream – laying on tall grass with his eyes slowly closing).  I mourned and continued in tears after being woken up by the excessive blood pressure, rising precisely because of this sadness.
The one who dreams someone else’s dreams is, needless to say, a terrible sleeper, for not only he feels things someone else must feel, but also becomes worried about the existence of this someone. Where is she? Her objectivity, obviously,  cannot be (without a doubt) inferred from a dream, but, going by the fact that it was her dream, she has to exist, she has to possess some – objectively ungrounded – subjectivity.
One could call this way of experiencing the world sobjective. And since it is pathetic in the purest sense of the word, the dreamer of someone else’s dreams tries to invent whole worlds for the people whose dreams he has taken away.
For without dreaming people lose their ability to exist, as horses put to sleep.

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