en liten hund på bussen en kväll

Hunden
På golvet 
Alldeles intill,
Skakandes
Stirrandes
Vilt omkring.
En vettvilling
All hjälp utom räckhåll.
Kopplet
I en lam böj,
Från hals till hand.
Kontrollen
Över den galne,
Alldeles slak
Som utan vilja.
Den la svansen
Inunder sig,
För att skydda den
Från omvärlden.
Liten hund
På golvet
Alldeles intill,
Skakande vettvilling,
Svansen i en lam böj,
Och kopplet
Utan vilja. 

småprat

skulle du vilja sitta på en parkbänk

och dela några cigaretter med mig

för gamla tiders skull

och sen, ja, aldrig mer. 

skulle du vilja sitta där i mörkret och i kylan och betrakta glöden dansa

fram och tillbaka

mellan läppar och tomma intet. 

sitta på en kall parkbänk, en lagom bit ifrån varandra. 

och vi skulle prata om allt nytt och det vi aldrig sa

jag undrar om jag skulle vara sådär ärlig som jag kan vara ibland

sådär lite för ärlig

och röken skulle kännas förgiftande och dålig för varenda cell, men bara ikväll

vi sa bara ikväll

vi skulle utbyta ord tankar och mening,

för just i kväll är allt mörkt och det enda som skulle lysa skulle vara vår glöd

vi skulle säga ord med betydelse som ingen annan kan säga 

och sen skulle jag gå hem

jag undrar hur lycklig jag skulle vara då, om vi delade några cigaretter för gamla tiders skull. 

better together

pictures taken by julia oliv.

silence

I want to write down a secret
tell you how the tears burn
and how the light hurts my eyes
I want to whisper the words
scream them out, in the empty room
with you sitting next door
I want to be honest with you
but I do not stand it any longer I have had enough I am fed up with it I can not manage it I am not able to keep up a surface for your sake nor my own I do not have that kind of strength
so for my own sake,
I will just keep it to myself, anyway.

let the blond girl talk

trust in my words
I have something to say
give it a chance, listen
for once
I want you to see
I have a mind spinning, hundreds of turns an hour
let me speak.
by these words,
I have said hardly anything,
though why
would I tell you anything
when you only neglect them?
why on earth are they worth spitting out?

the second time around

we sat down
in the corner
sofa and chair
opposite each other
talked for hours
you were listening
every word spoken
I were listening
everything you said
finally a conversation

wonderland

so I lost myself here
here in the garden of words
words which forms endless labyrints
labyrints where I get lost
lost, an escape form reality
reality which is not as pleasant as the garden's roses
roses which odour is close to chilly
chilly and blossom
blossom and cold
cold and chilly

sahara

"so, what about it?" you said
I opened my mouth to speak,
and as I did so, out came white sand
you looked at me in surprise
and I tell you, I was not
we were in the middle of a dessert
of course the only thing I could spit was sand
as from a caribbean beach
though there were no palmtrees in the kitchen that evening,
though some day it could be
I swallowed and, trying to look normal
(you can imagine it was difficult here, I mean, with all the sand on the plates...) I reopened my mouth
at that moment I knew we would have been better of in a dessert

power of belief

tiny words
I always want to remember
tatoo on by brain
"you will make it"
as you phrased the line yourself
tiny words
so easy forgotten
what a mind can do
mislead you to the wrong path
I have to start believe in myself

the charm of being your own friend

to understand others can be simple,
you see them from the outside
watching them
and even if you do not see their problems and worries in full view,
still you can see the sidesteps they are making
and you are able to prevent them doing those
to understand yourself
is the hardest part
you always lie
take short cuts
making up stupid explanations,
to find reason enough you wont blame yourself for anything,
or, you blame it all on you
sitting there crying
telling yourself you deserve it anyway

another chatterbox

i need your words,
the flowing conversation.
your thoughts,
I have never thought of.
and my questions,
your ability to answer.
give me energy,
I can feel the change
forming
inside of my head.
it
you

the you-effect

a lit upon my head
so are your words to me
a bullet in my chest
so are your comments I do not request
a thorn in my side
so are your presence effecting my existence
a rug of scorching coal
so are your mumbling of taunts
so please; just let me be.

a return in triumph

I still have not realized the importance of acknowledgment and corroboration,
nevertheless I am well on the road of discovery
entering with almost fear,
to leave with a glimmer of hope
it was just what I needed, why was it so hard to realize
what is the best for oneself
and what one need the most?
I guess the fright
is the answer.
A kind of cowardice of the possibility to be turned down, declared an idiot
but I was not,
and that is the point,
that is what matters most to me
at least now.

consequently I try to write a poem of some kind, regarding the fact that I am out of words

the knowledge
an exaggerated pressure on my lungs
stopt me from breathing
an interdiction in my mind
I should not have uttered a word
I am to bad at lying
no words will come out
no thought will render onto the white sheet of paper
honesty is a bitch worth fucking

unmoor the night

this is what I meant

it is so hard to fall asleep

to drift away on the sea of unconsciousness

to let the waves of rhythmic clock tick, be the soft wind in my sails

and my own breaths, the cries of seagulls in the velvet sky

thoughts of tomorrow have already arrived

now they are criss-crossing the tunnels of my brian, making loud noises, scare the gulls away

I glare out the window, somehow the sky is white apricot

which makes the trees a fine contrast

it is only half past one, still there is hope for my voyage to start

however, slightly late

a feeling called remorse

to clear the mistakes of yesterday,
I punish myself today.
and I tell myself; this will make it up to me,
I wonder if it does.
lying on my back,
because it is the only way I can survive this night.
I can not vomit, if I lie, awake on the back, at night.
it is how it feels.
why? I ask myself,
still I know I have got no answers.
so then why? if I have got no reason. not for pro, neither con.
never again, I tell myself, never again.
and here I am. full of regret in the night.
remembering how I, only weeks ago, made a promise
to never in my life, never
so here I lie...

I h(e)a(r)te you

I will through it away now

You better fetch it

I do not want it

Anymore

So you better take it

With your both hands

It might be heavy

I do not know

Take it and keep it, at least for a while

Because now I am tired of breaking my back from carrying it around. 

a friend in love

mere friends!
how can any friend be mere!?
they are
everything
but mere
and you say love,
love is everything!
and therefore I protest
because if love is not to grow
that kind of love lovers love,
then friendship is ultimate,
if both parts agree
and if they do not?
you ask
then I believe they would, anyway
because if you love, and friendship is the nearest you can get
then you will be the best friend
because the suffer and agony is worth the pleasure and joy, which fills you up in the closeness of your friend
therefore it do not exist mere friendship
friendship is everything but mere

when it leaves

by now
my face has shrunken
to an ash grey graveyard
by now
the sweet and tender

of my rosy cheeks

has left its place

the sharpness of the glimpse in my eyes
have for long left its nest
and the smoothness and pure
has for more than moments ago
left me sore and bare
so this is how it leaves.

phonecall

and the small words from your lips
whispered harsh things through the telephone.
as you sit by the window, watching the world change its shape
this time not you.
and the reply from the other end
a voice so clear as the cripsy morning
tells you it is to late
as you watch the world through the window, you melt away
because water and rain and
tears from your lips
they fly for seconds in the air
as swans flying together at summertime
it is far away
and you know you never will have it back.
thanks.

talk

there were not much to say before we had to go deeper in our conversation
in our lives, with our words, in us.
therefore there were silence.
you rushed away, to someone else, who were at the same level
and did not move.
between you and me, there were
silence on this floor
now
I wondered if there were silence
deep down.
I wonder still.
where would we have found our voices?

the clock tick

what is rush, when time is all we have
and what is age, when we only gain experience by its increasing number
what is there to run to
and run away from, when everything will catch up no matter what we do
and why is it so hard to realize
those facts we can not deny
would not we take advantage and benefits from this lesson of life, if we only came to understand its development
?

thank you; you raised the sun again and gave me a new day

a new day
with a new, blank, unwritten sheet of paper
an opportunity to make the possible best,

the best possible

of this day

a start,
fresh from sleep
strength regained, focus recovered
I am ready
bring it on.

and she is so damn ugly

words from behind
boys' words of wisdom
telling clever things
talking about how everything is
how everyone are
they know, everything
and what they want
horny they are
nothing is enough in the night
they know, they can have it all

drizzle

small reminders on the skinn
tell that the skinn exists
and feels
drops, hard pearls sent from above
unshapable
small and scratches my face
to catch my attention
to make me remember
something I have already forgotten

vice is punished and virtue rewarded

in the fright of failure
I dare not to succeed
but "if you do not riks anything, you riks even more"
what is there to wait for?
embark on this journey! get ahead!
give me that horizon which I have asked for.
I am not there yet, still I want it, and more

contradiction

your word said "no, I do not want to, never would I"

and your gestures say "I do not dare"

it is a sweet irony of ones soul's concern, a brooding dilemma at hand

the art of words

I ought to write this down. It makes me cry, as I am smiling by every word. Such a beauty, how can anyone write with such a beauty? How can anyone put the words down this immaculate? I did not know it was possible, possible and done. When I red Herta Muller, I thought I had red the most beautiful text ever written. How wrong I was. All wrong. Every single word by Oscar Wild is a poem. I can read one page a hundreds of times, yet not be satisfied. Hardly can I see through my tears. It is a struggle. Alas, I have to fight.
The Picture of Dorian Grey by Oscar Wilde;
"The artist is the creator of beautiful things.

To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim.

The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.

The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography. Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming.

This is a fault.

Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope.

They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty.

There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written.

That is all.

The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.

The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass.

The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved.

No artist has ethical sympathies.

An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.

Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art.

Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art.

From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician.

From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type.

All art is at once surface and symbol.

Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.

Those who read the symbol do so at their peril.

It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.

Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital.

When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself.

We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.

All art is quite useless."

"you said something about a jew before you left"

"Do not worry about tomorrow- who knows what can happen today?"
I sad and slamed the door shut. Left for an unexpected party of an unusual kind.

in search of Lovisa Ingman

Remembering the time,
when I was more to a child
than I am today
or the same child, with more life experience
We never grow up, do we?
Remembering the shame,
when I was a child,
I wanted to be her.
Though I learned to know, that it was all me.
If I am not the one to be proud of myself, then who will be?

and you are??

The cloth tell the story
and the make up an other lie
The language of your body says "come on, lets go"
and your eyes, your eyes tell me no
The voice expresses a different view
and what it tells confuses me
because all it says is that these element of barricade is not who you used to be.
Be sincere. What part is real?
Give me something genuine and pure.
Something that will last, at least an hour more.

to see

How can the sky be som light, at these dark times?
The trees become silhouettes.
And during daytime, they cast their shadows at the white ground.
I thought of you,
when the snowflakes scratched my cold skinn, as they hurried flew by.
The breath of the night
found its way through the layers of wool. A shiver with cold.
I should see the beauty, I thought. Not confine my self.
And instead of keeping my eyes fixed on the ground, counting every step, I raised my gaze. Looked up at the streetlights, radiating their warped beams.
The flakes, which was more grains due to the wind, flew high up there.
They whirled in weightlessness.
And I saw the beauty, and smiled. Because the sky is light at these dark times, the flakes flew the midnight scene and I walked home. Watching the drama of mother earth.

the bottom compartment of the freezer

Black currants, a distant memory
The light, the heat, the mild breeze
All so far away
Coloring my lips and tongue
A retrospect from the childhoods glorified days

the drabness of everyday life

I bought a calendar yesterday
to put my mind in place
to see the gaps of my free time
to fill the empty space
The complexity is not rare these days
still I think it strange
to plan the hours to be artistic, free of all the chains
It is an intricate and odd deed
But which man does not want to rule the human being and its needs?

spinning mind

ideas forming, images flickering by
keyboards clattering and fingers dancing
a pause, a breath, eyes narrowing
and then, return to the clattering
some of does times, I just want to stop them coming
I just want to stop the flow of creativity
because at this time, I'm locked up in a cage
a cage of age, distans and space
between me and the future, my capability of making them come true
so for now, just wait, until the future gets nearer and I
get the chance to see it all much clearer