The Merciless

 ---

I could pretend to be blind,
and I would never really be it. Clasp
iron around my head, lock
the collar and throw away the key -
I could pretend to be blind,
but I would never really be it.

I could build a tower on a base of sand,
drive the pillars into the deepest rock, set
carefully steel against steel, swear
this is my home and here will I die -
I could build a tower on a base of sand,
and it might last the trials.

I could swear unto one love,
speak the words and pray to gods, break
the heart of any other, slip
the ring around their finger -
I could swear unto one love,
and it might last the trials.

I could cry when all comes tumbling down.

Bend the world around your mind, like
a drop bends a ray of light, make
truth out of grains of sand, and
here is your life -

but you are never really blind.

---

A Life in Faded Green and Rusty Black

I wish you were here to tell me what is important.

There goes a set of cups,
a carpet,
a curtain,
a candelabra,
a ceramic cat,
a spotless new coffee pot on the big blurry heap
of things that are just things.

A lifetime of things.
Some to be nothings,
some to be somethings.
Ugly things, pretty things,
cheap things, expensive things,
whose price tag is printed in your secret language
and written with dust and fingerprints;
with tears and private smiles.

I wish you were here to tell me what is important.

Is it the chair with a missing button?
Is it the chipped plates with flower prints?
Did you run your fingertips over the surface and feel like home,
or did your partner pick them up against your will?
Did you hide your treasures at the back of the cupboard,
or are they unwanted things stashed out of sight?

One thing on the heap,
one thing in my pocket.
It's like a morbid game show.
"Step up on the stage!
Guess, out of these hundred objects
which one your loved one's ghost would haunt!
Speak up!
Lean closer to the microphone, please."

Please,
I wish you were here to tell me what is important.

From the Candy Snake

Every move you make
every little step
of your rituals
are like chocolate cake



for my soul, my heart,
like a burning flame
for a moth like me,
whispering the name



of your spirit core,
grand and beautiful,
of your time and love
I pray grant me more.



Don't want sugar cubes,
I'll eat you instead;
won't be satisfied
'til I'm in your head.



(Bet I creep you out
like a candy snake,
but you bear with me
as I flail about.)



Want to wear your skin
what's it like to be
perfect in yourself?
Here's a poem from me:



you're soft through and through,
you're like candy floss;
it can't be washed off.
P.S. I love you.

Lövet och Stjärnorna

Jag är ett löv på stora havets vågor
och driver fram och åter som det vill.
Man säger mig att jag kan växa åror
om jag är modig och stark och lite till.

Man säger att där finns ett träd jag kom från,
och någonstans jag kanske blir ett träd.
Och likt ett legendariskt barn på halmstrån,
Tre Vise Männen kan visa mig min väg.

Man säger, du som kan se stjärnor
du borde ro dit stjärnskådarna bor.
Att driva runt är som med svin och pärlor;
varför va löv när man kan vara stor?

Men jag är blott ett löv på havets vida vågor,
jag ser stjärnor när de själva ror förbi.
Jag varit båt om jag var ment för åror
- men jag är Löv, och löv ska jag förbli.

That Which Wants

I want such peculiar little things.
I want to lift my feet when it vacuums,
and do its laundry,
and not mind when it walks in on me dancing stupidly in my headphones.
I wouldn't mind walking with it,
but I don't want to bike with it,
or drive with it,
unless I can ride in the back.
I don't want to share my cat cuddle time
- that's between the cat and me -
but I would love to watch the cat sleeping
on it sleeping.

I want to walk beneath orange streetlights
like a model on a catwalk to the beat in my ears
in the cold night air,
wishing I could reflect the light like cat eyes -
then I would leer at myself in the darkness,
smirk and giggle darkly
that I am that
which lifts its feet when you vacuum,
which does your laundry
and watches you sleep with a cat on your chest.

It is SO ODD to read old posts, most of all old poems and the ramblings I have around them. Poems are tricky things. They're obviously obvious to myself, which means that it's impossible to imagine what they look like to someone who isn't inside my head, and somehow right now I relate that to what they talked about in the Portal 2 commentary; that puzzles have to be dumbed down for people to understand. If nobody understands my poems, then what would be their point? On the other hand, how much can I "dumb them down" without losing their meaning? Should I do that at all, seeing as poems should be "pure" or "raw" in contrast to prose or story form, or that's been my impression anyway. They are attempts at communicating, after all.

In any case, because of cat, when I get my random inspirations of wanting to sing (happens a lot) I've improvised melodies to a poem I made a long time ago that I love a lot and that works well to improvise simple tunes to. My roomie has expressed... I'm not sure what, puzzlement? at what this text is, so now that I've found my original (because I'd forgotten a verse) I'm going to post it here.

!

Have you ever seen a thing
as beautiful, as amazing,
as feline missus over there
and how she carries her bling-bling?

Every hair in proper place,
no sign of make-up on her face,
nor or knife or needle are
on her body any trace.

See how gracious her behind;
such a step is hard to find,
and this one mister over here,
she has already blown his mind.
Mister takes his only chance
and asks her politely to dance,
and there they go in correct waltz
though surely he would wish to prance!
Such a lady, is she not?
It takes him all night long to spot
a way in through her defense
as solid as the Camelot!
Though first saying firmly no,
treating him almost as foe,
no more a lady is she now
than to tell him "let us go!".
But do not think her easy prey;
more a hunter I would say.
And it will be up to her call
if there'll be kittens here in May!

!

Unguarded

When did this happen?
When did this tousled little ball of fur
become a single fire burning
at the top of the world?

When did the world shift and make you mine?
I wish I could recall ever letting my guard down.
But the truth is you've spread like a drop of red paint
slowly stretching through the plumbing of my veins,
and the passages of my mind.

When did it happen?
When did this sleeping god awaken
to shred the shell I once met
and plant the new seed?

When did the sprout burst, and its leaves?
I wish I could recall ever seeing it grow.
But the truth is it's here, rooting you in my home,
slowly growing into the webs of my bones,
reaching into a memory, into my heart...

awakening the fear that I
have spent a hundred lifetimes forgetting
and still failed.

The Actress

I wanna paint a picture of life and health
in pale pink and black and red;
if I stare in a mirror long enough
I'll see the picture there instead.
I wanna dance on the rooftops and float on clouds
and weigh like a feather of grace;
and if the scales show heavy numbers then
there's someone else there in my place.
I wanna be the ghost that everyone sees,
an invisible object of love;
if unattainable is the most wanted of all
then I'll be the star above.
I wanna craft my eggshell so perfectly
that even I can't see the lie;
and how empty it is inside won't be known
until it shatters - until I die.

Siren's Dream

This memory that makes my heart tremble,
it was real until I plucked the seams apart,
and the stuffing spilled out and turned out to be mist.
But my heart won't stop trembling.
I don't want it to.
I look back at myself and realize
that I'm standing at the edge of the abyss.
Did I make the leap?
Is it the song of insanity the sirens are singing?
Take the leap, what does it matter.
Insanity might be the only way to stay sane.

"Be careful what you wish for,
because what has been seen cannot be unseen.
And if you hope too hard for it to be real,
reality will become the dream."

Tainted

Buried in an unmarked grave
part of my heart
rotting there together with your corpse.
I picture little white worms writhing in your empty eye sockets
and I feel peace.

Am I going mad?

Your grave is here in my chest
and the dead in me longs to touch you
longs to wring the necks of the living
longs to lay them softly at your feet as gifts of love.

Only this can be true love
slowly losing my mind.
My fingers gently brushing the faces of the surviving
while the missing piece of me cries for bloody vengeace
for the crime of outliving you.

Would you want their corpses, my love?
Would you accept my gifts?
Is it the dead in me, or the dead in you?

Am I going mad?

Only this can be eternal love
that can taint me so.
Like your sickly, putrid blood
soaking into the soft woolen fabric of my mind
a love that can never be washed away.

So much yummy food there is

in my tummy, how I wish

there was none 'cause then, you see,

more food I could put in me.

Lies

Let the winds lift you into the skies. Take your first breath and ascend among the clouds, listen to the birds and your own pulse, feel the warmth of the sun against your face. It does not fight you, although it might feel like it burns. It is only your own body, the limit of your eyes. The deep skies do not repel. They envelop.

Search the endless for the desires inside your head. Let the reflected light of the unexplored skies shine through you. Absorb it, grow a part of the air itself. Take another deep, filling breath and let go of your fears. Feel the clouds gently touch your skin, like the fingertips of a lover.

And be reborn the perfect creature you were looking for. Become what you were meant to be. Return to the world surface with all of your ambitions embodied in you. The world where everyone wears the skin of what they fear over the true form that they have forgotten.

Temptation may come your way, but pay it no heed. Make your path, like all creatures must. Cut down the shrubbery, keep the flowers you like. There is no rest for the imperfect. Respect and honor is what you make it. Perfection, is what you make it. Try it. Taste it. Feel it. Turn your face up to the skies and breathe it.

Life is too short. Rather be all that you can be than run from it.

Vacuum

Swim down into the deep seas. Take your last breath and plummet downwards, listen to the silence and your own pulse, feel the water flow between your fingers. It does not fight you, although it might feel like it is pushing you up. It is only your own body, the air in your lungs. The deep dark does not repel. It engulfs.

Search the endless for the fears inside your head. Let the pressure of the unexplored depths harden you. Absorb the darkness, grow a part of the silence. Let go of the air in your lungs, and sink. Feel the cold of the ocean envelop you, like the warmth of a womb.

And be reborn the monster you were looking for. Become what you were meant to be. Return to the surface world with all of your fears embodied in you. The world where everyone wears the skin of what they should be over the true form that they try to forget.

Darkness cannot reach you as little as sunlight can burn the sun. Make your path, like all monsters do. Cut down the shrubbery, keep the flowers you like. There is no shame among monsters. Respect and honor is what you make it. Monsters, are what you make them. Try it. Taste it. Feel it. Smile with bright white fangs in the dark.

Life is too short. Rather be the monster than run from it.

Snip Snip

Someone I know once wrote a poem about a lobster being cooked. Either because she felt like it, or because she ran out of epic depth and philosophical bullshit, I'm not sure. I was contemplating this on an especially boring class of mine, and produced this:

Swiftly spinning scissor blades
Wasp and willow swiftly wades
through the swaying, whispering grass
begging to be saved.
Many many morning suns
huffing, puffing, having fun
as the spinning scissor blades
and their engine runs.
But wasp and willow shed a tear
and grass is quivering with fear
Noises loud and frightening as
spinning scissors shear.

The thought of sharp objects did lighten up the boredom slightly.

Somebody kick me, I want to feel pain.

Though the truth is I play this game too well
and the words never leave my lips.
I could swear on my feelings but never admit
that I wish you could read my mind.
I writhe and I scream and I cry inside
and I wonder how it can be
That at the end of the day, it matters not anyway
that the only who sees is me.

Somebody kick me, I want to feel pain.

Consolation

Too much, too many, a waterfall of little transparent beads, spheres, marbles not made of earth or clay or stone, solid until you touch them

As they are to your eyes, such are thoughts to your mind, until words and letters, print and syllables, catch them, grasp them, carry them out into the world like spirits made children through a woman's body

And yet so many pass you by, so many little beads fall silently into oblivion, to the endless depths of the darkness of your mind, where the waterfall scatters them, shatters them, and turns them into a slow-flowing river, silent, vast, persistent

That short moment they pass before you, though, and you know that they are there although your eyes cannot see them, although all you see is the strength and might of the waterfall -

- that is the only moment they have anything in common with emotion.

A shadow passing silently over endless fields, the spread wings of an enormous, invisible creature blocking out the sun, that is what emotions are

Sometimes passing so swiftly you never knew it was there, like a whale passing you beneath the sea unnoticed, or sometimes covering the entire lands in shadow until it is the only thing on your mind

Waterfalls fall in the shadow of this creature the same as grass and stone and sea does, and the many tiny little beads, both the ones caught and the ones forgotten, seem insignificant -

but it is not the shadow that sustains us, or the world around us. It is the sun it blocks out, and it is the water.

Proper

Been reading that old Swedish book again. It makes my head come up with verses in old Swedish, which is by the way much much more fun than modern Swedish. Here's a poem/riddle:

Skulle ni av någon anledning stå utan sällskap

skall jag alltid finnas vid eder sida

till tröst.

Och den enda gång jag skall lämna eder 

voro då ni befinner eder i goda vänners sällskap

ty ingenting missunnar jag eder

Too easy, I think, so perhaps more of a poem. 

Behind blue eyes

It's difficult being angry. Logic very easily picks anger apart, and makes you see how ineffective it is, and points out all the little things that make the anger silly. Justified, righteous anger is something terrible, an unstoppable force. But anger is very, very seldom justified and righteous. Nobody is innocent, nobody is perfect. So anger melts away and hides in a shadowy corner, beaten like a dog for its rashness, with the many lessons of compassion and respect and understanding wielded as weapons leaving deep, ugly scars on its skin. There it waits, rests. Whispers simple syllables dripping of acid, watching with revenge-hungry eyes. And what was once a simple dog with a love for chasing rabbits, becomes a deformed monster with milky-white eyes, greatly enjoying the hunt, the strike, the kill. Into darkness, becoming darkness.

Can I speak of anger? Can I express anger? Can I make poems of anger? No. Do not let the beast out of its cage, compassion says to me. Do not let it bury its claws in you, respect advices. Do not trust it with anything, least of all your passion, says logic, gleefully snapping the whip of understanding. Do not let others see it. Do not let others hear of it. For that which is your greatest strength is also your greatest weakness. It has never been more true than in this case.

Leave it there, in the shadows. When the time comes that you really need it, it will strike down your foes with razor sharp claws and let you stare at them with its eyes, its strength infecting your blood. And it will be justified, it will be righteous, and it will be unstoppable.

Second-guessing.

Blogger suddenly backstabbed me with 1.5 line distance like:

this. Why? It ruins my poetry, and looks ridiculous.

But on to (now redicilously looking) poetry:

---

1. The loaded anger of many little simple syllables.

Words and faces

clothes and places

brain and flesh and matter

Bulky pieces

aunts and nieces

staged fashion disaster

Comfortably numb.

Great ones snoring

small imploring

middle-men are fretting

All these choices

thought-out voices

knowingly are letting

us stay comfortably dumb.

2. A "close my eyes and write fluffy stuff" moment.

If I saw a butterfly I could imagine

that it came from far away with fateful flaps of bright blue wings

that it would land on my doorstep

and spell messages in hidden languages in the snow.

If I saw a butterfly I could imagine

that beneath its many insect eyes lay greater minds

that it would sprinkle bright blue dust upon my eyelids

and give me dreams of greater worlds.

If I saw a butterfly I could imagine

that its wings were the transformed veil of a priestess of the sky

that there were plans and life and fate behind its presence

and that would change my plans and life and fate.

It makes me wonder:

if you see a butterfly

and only see a butterfly

is it prettier than my butterfly?

---

A fleeting feeling

I can no longer skate
This wonderous artform
the only trace it leaves behind in the world
graceful, even lines
shallow on the cold, hard surface
and gentle ripples through cold air,
like flying without wings

I can no longer skate
and don't for a moment think
a blind man can miss sight ever as much
as the one who once saw,
he constantly reminded,
nevermind that the colors in his mind
glow brigther than in the eyes of the seeing.

I can no longer skate
While i borrow the strength
of your thighs and your calves and your wrists
to propell myself forward
like I borrow your eyes to see the world,
the bitterness of flightless creatures
is mine to cherish and to savor.