the record store

back home
not too far from my apartment
there was this record-store
a small store
that could fit maybe five or six people
but i never saw more than two in there
i used to stop by most every day
to listen to music they wouldn't play anywhere else
to look at albums i'd never seen before
i would hang out with the owner and talk about music
for hours
i liked him a lot
he was passionate about his buisness
and i wished that i had a passion
sometimes i listen to the records i bought there
and i think about him
that store was his life
and eventually his death
he died of a heart-attack when he was 30
i tried to go back to that store
but it wasn't the same
not when he was gone
now they play the same music they play everywhere else
i've seen all the albums before
now there is usually more than two people in the store
and i can't go back there anymore

debatical

there is always a war up for debate
people go on and on and on
and i long to the days of broken bottles
blood and alcohol
music also
tied to that tune of drunken madness
the battles keep on coming
and we are tired of not fighting

so many words in the paper
to few faces
nothing to tie the ship to
we drift away in this sea of muck
give us the poison that is rightfully ours
heritage

sometimes we are washed ashore
sick by the swell of our past
there it is
broken bottles and blood and alcohol
music no more
you don't pick your battles
only your weapon
and your weapon is not up for debate

dream

i loved her when she slept
perfect,
framed in light blue stillness
a quiet beauty,
not passing judgement or doubt
i could watch for hours
trying to get a taste from the subtle movements of her jaw
but i failed to penetrate her subconscious
before she awakened with a glare of guilt in her eyes

was i ever in her dreams?

myself,
i'm incapable of dreaming
now that she's gone

climate shock therapy

this time of year
(november).
where i grew up
one look out the window reads death
spelled by trees lining the street
starved to dry bones
and the birds have all moved on
following our last breath south.
i had yet to be alive when i headed west
all the way to california.
these days i follow my own winds south
like the birds
to the deserts
to a different kind of dying
a death that i can live.

smog (the LA poem)

los angeles is a neuron
at the core of the psychotic mind
a shock of brilliance and madness
this atlantis demon of the desert
draped in a fabric
thin like smog
woven by the energy of millions lost
framed by confused consciousness
like a graffiti painting
this reality hits the wall
as the firestorms create their own winds in the southland
los angeles is the last to know
the nightmare of so many people here
create the sweet dreams for an entire world
if you have one way out
you go west
this is misery, this is beauty
and this is west

memory loss

i had a lot of good stories
but the allusive details are gone
all that is left is the vague sensation
that i once lived
like a shock of static electricity
delivered by a stranger
the scent of a summer that seemed to last forever
we don't get those anymore
not even in california where it is always summer
this memory loss
it might be a primal instinct
or maybe it's the drugs
cause i refuse to believe that i never had much fun

the only child

what if God got tired
moved on to bigger and better things
told his son to cut his hair and get a job, then
sent him back to us
what if Jesus is getting drunk at some bar in Texas.
not a carpenter anymore, but
a mechanic,
a part time poet
taking comfort in rust, and
failing livers
signs of time
he can taste some truth at the bottom of the bottle
and the drugs
they decide whats real or not
if that even matters.
last call, and
he tries to scribble down words in the right order
to disrupt order by using words
still fascinated by rust and time
his failing liver
this time he can only die for his own sins

time to appreciate

in old westerns
some poor guy always gets shot in the stomach.
a good guy, but not the lead.
it may take hours,
sometimes days
to die from such injuries.
slow,
painful, but
a good way to go i believe.
just enough time
to lose all shame
or ambitions.
total freedom
and the time to appreciate.
as you drift into a dream
the gaping, gushing hole
speaks to you
a promise of rest.
that is how i would leave
i'm a good guy
but i was never the lead

but now i'm crying

crawling, yes I'm crawling
then i'm running
the crack in the ground
growing larger
my shoes are blue and I'm running
people yelling, grabbing money from my hands
now they are pointing
crawling. i yell back
the sky is black, but now i'm laughing
crack in the ground, tearing us apart
people fall in, and i'm laughing louder
then crying from the stinging guilt and shame
angry hands take my alcohol away
uniforms look upon me with suspicious eyes
and the sun is up forever
where beauty breaks like glass
and i sit and sit and sit
and i'm crying

little dog, old man

i have a small dog
a chihuahua
she is not even two years old
despite her age and sex
she reminds me of an old man
patient and wise
little dog, old man
sometimes i think she is my best friend
when she takes me for a walk
she slows me down
helps me pay attention to the details
the small things that make up the day
little dog, old man
i love you for your loyalty
you are weary of strangers
always honest
little dog, old man
she wants to go everywhere with me
and when i leave her
she howls by the window
like a small wolf
and when i return she bites my nose
little dog, old man
i wish i was more like you

before i go to bed

christmas, almost
out on my porch
kind of cold for california, but
i'm out here every night
sucking on that last cigarette
i've come to enjoy these palm-trees
better in the dark
and the two black men that are slowly passing by
one always talking
about things i don't know
the other listening, like me
trying to understand
his voice reminds me of a book i once read
but the moon distracts me
from remembering it's name
right now it feels like i've always been happy
but i know that can't be true
i wonder if the moon can hear us howling
so does the men, talking
gone in the dark

sit

have you ever seen a hummingbird sit?
i have
they always seem to be flapping their wings
yet going nowhere.
i was wearing only a scream back then
displaying my sick tongue
fluttering my fingers at the air.
perhaps it wasn't a hummingbird
but my last sincere dream
resting for a moment to shake it's head at me.
whatever it was,
it made me small
then i forgot about it
until now.

pills and bugs and such...

pills in a matchbox
oh, my god

bugs are eating pills, and the pills
and the pills
they are eating my stomach
and i crush those bugs with my index-finger.

bugs in a pillbox
oh, my god

and the pills will crush my soul with their crawling, and the bugs
and the bugs
they always never sleep
cause they have to stay in my dreams

me in a bugbox
oh, my god

those feelers can't feel much more, and i can't
and i can't
they trample me with their many feet
even when i'm not asleep

one frame per hour

on my silver screen
a muted trumpet plays
at one frame per hour
perfect lighting
shows how dark it really is
it is not a big deal
most of us are only extras
walk from here to there
don't drag any attention to yourself
it is easy to believe that life is a movie
but from the back row
i understand
that this show is nothing spectacular
it is only life
and life happens all the time

i hate trumpets

drip

oh yeah, magnolia
this sure looks like the dark
it is what we seek
that little sadness injection
a mournful IV-drip
self-pitying deathbed we lay on
every word bundled into a withered bouquet
drip drip drip
what runs through us is nothing new
it's donor sorrow, black
inherited muck
well i don't want it
not no more

pimp

He held it over his head
that ol' book with her worn out pages
still he preach
in his finest megaphone voice
the judgement he no longer believes
She rests in the worst motels
too many men have left their fingerprints
on her skin
He, the pimp of that whorish bible
just another Messiah rolling down interstate 80
lonely like the distance of the highway
no lightning-bolts, no desire
but at every vacancy sign
those flickering neon beacons
She waits
for the man to lose his faith

coffin-parade

in the moonscape of sandy flats
on warm stones, far from water
thoughts arrive
deep like drowning. shocked
in a neuron firestorm
the sun will cast my shadows in every direction
like a compass gone mad from bipolar magnetism
this is a wild west funeral
a coffin-parade through dusty towns
lost from lost beings
a backwards dance, backtracking my walk on the wrong path
life has spiraled out of my hands, and into the hands of the spiral
don't bother with that wooden cross
i'm not done yet
when i am
the birds will pick me apart
the color on their beaks will taste
like red nothing

sledgehammer fingers

there is something arousing about observing people
from a safe distance
there are bubbles bursting in my guts
as i observe her
she is writing aggressively.

this is in a bar
one of those dark places
where people go to avoid each other
the beer-glass always have traces of lipstick and fingerprints
this is our way of socializing
we communicate with stains and uncleanliness.

her fingers grow into the shape of small sledgehammers, pouncing
bashing the plastic keys of her laptop
hateful words for sure
i imagine it being a break-up letter
or a fuck-you-note to her manager.

in this moment of inspiration
i lock myself in the bathroom
to jerk off, and
write threatening words on the clean walls
these lines will brew inside the stall
like a dirty bomb
ready to ruin your day

when i'm done
she is gone, and
so is my beer
i tip the fat bastard behind the bar five cents
and complain about the rude message in the mens-room
this is my way of saying fuck you
it's hard to always take your frustration out on the wrong person.

heading home
knowing that i never did partake much in life
i curse myself and everyone
but i intend to enjoy the delicate details of death
when the time comes.

gracefully ill

in dreams
you walk the road to the horizon
to that edge
where you sit with the sun
red in it's dying hour
so gracefully ill
that moment blasts you into particles
sweeping across the open
like a vengeful dust cloud
before settling in dunes
softly shaped
beneath the dark clearing sky
spanning your existence
this show, this splendor
you drink it up
alone out here
with this huge fucking tit
filled with white tasting colors
naked as in birth
the all overshadowing thoughts of death
are not so exhilarating anymore
all living here
is a beautiful tale of resilience

final breath

i drag my friend
by his shirt
from deep inside the apartment
from the deep inside his mind
i pull him to the doorway
feel that, i say
that kind night temperature
the smells, the sounds
this is all here for us
to mend the faltering spirits
look at that california sky, i say
refreshed, loaded
but we live in a dump, he says
hesitant to embrace
cause it's free
life has brought us here, i gesticulate
he nods his head
this is just another story
don't you see?
in that final breath we're just a story
a story that ends
all stories die
but right now we live forever
all this, right now
is forever
for a moment

masked

the woman
masked cold white
so naked
fallen stars all around, or
snowflakes glistening in the pale
the forest all but dead
dry distorted bones
pointing sharp
through a hole in the imagination
she travels
back in time
lonesome
to a time less traveled
at those impossible hours of the night
melancholy sets in
but she
she is long gone

gazer

on her back now
fallen among flowers
peering into the blue
looking for signs of doom
a disappearing ozone-layer
maybe a spy-plane
cruising silently overhead,
sucking up e-mails, on-line chats, phone-calls
an incriminating tornado of information
feasting on fears and hopes
her most embarrassing self
she hums a nursery rhyme in her head
hiding thoughts from the evil gazer in the sky
(the way her mom used to hide her thoughts from God)
back on her knees, not praying
teetering on that edge between what is known
and what is not
she weaves images of plagues and nuclear warfare
a wry utopia
naked hell on earth
in mass hysteria she could hide
embalm herself in calm
and there,
will she find?
a home

on the sideline

woke up
too late again
too late to play
or partake in the whimsical dance
of the day
i have to sit this one out
on the sideline
on the bench
i get food
a box of honey-roasted peanuts
they are sweet- piece by piece
until they're gone
i light cigarette after cigarette
one by one
i'm a passive spectator
i'm a worshiper
as it all moves by
the intricate mechanics
forceful energies
molecules, atoms, x-rays, radio-waves, micro-waves
air filled with sounds we can't hear
the invisible players
all that stuff that will kill us
the honey-roasted peanut box
slowly filled with burnt out butts
physics, mathematics, medicine
nature itself
i sit this one out
ultra-violet, and
unfazed by the obvious
i want to create create create
destroy destroy destroy
i don't want to go to heaven
or hell
this is all, this goes on
day by day
i'm forced to get drunk

4:37 am

fighting my way out of sweat soaked sheets,
punching to the beat of my upstairs-neighbors washer.
it's 4:37 am,
the drugs i took have turned me into a fetus.
my nose is itching.
the war-drums upstairs are beating at 1000 RPM's
beating beating beating my brain
into pulp.
i fuckin hate everyone, i think. but
i must have said it out loud,
cause there is a girl in my bed,
and she asks me if i think that's fair.
"is what fair?", i ask.
"is that fair to everyone," she asks, "that you hate them?"
"it might not be fair", i admit, "but at least it's unfair to everyone."
she doesn't notice that i'm hovering three inches above my bed
the drugs i took have made me weightless,
and my nose is itching.
"can you please shut the fuck up!", i scream to the washer upstairs.
someone stomps their feet on the floor above me,
yelling something back- but i can't make it out.
now the old lady next door joins in, howling at the top of her lungs
like a wolf
hungry for some peace and quiet.
i have started a chain-reaction.
people are waking up
all over the neighborhood, yelling at each other
the sun comes up, and they all get into their cars
honking their horns, pissing sounds,
territorial.
now the whole goddamn city is awake.
and the drugs i took have turned me into a sponge
sucking up the noise, and my nose is itching.
for a second i am God.
i can hear everybodys pathetic petty desperate prayers at once,
and i hate them all.
the girl gets out of my bed
"get some sleep", she says
"who are you?", i ask, but she's gone,
and i scratch my nose.
the drugs i took have turned me into a God,
a God that has no control.

Miss April

i woke up the other night
in my own vomit
in someone else's bathroom
i didn't recognize the vinyl floor,
the dirty porcelain
and my insides smelled like Jagermeister
(i find myself in these situations
from time to time)
and as i laid there
cursing the my drunken state, i
gazed upon the wall
and there she was
shining in that harsh light
Miss April
like the virgin
but less holy
and there was something i recognized
man, that body!
it got me right back up
on my feet

as i stumbled back out there
into the foreign living room
filled with meaningless chit-chat, by
the strange faces
i looked for my wife
but she saw me first,
tapping me gently on the shoulder
there was something i recognized
"did you see Miss April?", i asked her
she wiped some puke off my face
"i sure did"
"her body looks exactly like yours", i told her
and she knew i wasn't lying
she's my best friend, my wife
like the virgin
but less holy
"let's get you home", she said
and i knew
that i have the best wife in the world
she's even better than
Miss April

inflatable moose-head

there is an inflatable moose-head
on my brown wooden wall.
just couldn't afford a real one.
i picture a plastic moose
going about it's business,
probably somewhere in Alaska.
then the hunter comes along
with his plastic bow and arrow,
like the ones you used as a kid
playing cowboy and indian.
he takes his aim, then shoots,
and with the suction cup stuck to it's forehead,
the moose buckles to it's knees.
we don't call them indians
anymore,
but a cowboy is still a cowboy.
i was always a native american
when we played those games.
but i'm drifting away here...

the salton sea

she says,
"you know you bring me down"
"uh-hum", i respond.
that is the best i can come up with
in this heat,
surrounded by boarded up motels, and
empty swimming pools

she says,
"you bring me out here",
her face wrinkled around her nose.
what she see are
millions of rotting fish on the shore.
what she see are signs, telling us to keep out.

someone is observing us, but
from where, i don't know.
she says,
"why couldn't you take me to disneyland?"

this was the riviera.

i say,
"this is the ultimate failure"

this was las vegas.

i say,
"this is death"

this was mecca.

i say,
"this is total freedom"

i know she doesn't know what i mean

i am dead skin

today,
feels like a bad drug.
one of those bitter pills
that won't kick in.
i'm in the air,
gently powdered on the couch.
when i've given up on the pill,
i take another one.
today,
i am dust.
just after swallowing,
the first one pick me up.
this dust,
it is mites.
today,
makes me sick.
i'm sprinkled on my bed.
knock me out,
put me to sleep.
this dust,
it is dead skin.

the moth

the moth
it hung there
fat and juicy, on my wall.
sinister black,
like a hummingbird
cast from heaven.
for a week it was there, never moving.
an ornament,
out of place
in the bright light.
it frightened me at first,
then slowly won me over.
looking so very lonely,
i didn't want to kill it anymore.
just observe it, maybe move a little closer.
at night i wondered what it was doing,
if it would be there in the morning.

then,
after seven days
it left my wall,
flying gracefully across the room.
calculated, precise
into my fan
like it had been planning it for a while.
and like that,
it died.
my evil friend.
i never knew it's intentions,
and it never knew mine.

pen

the words don't come easy
on this nauseous hungover day
every train of thoughts trails off
into mad nonsense.
maybe if i buy a new pen, i think
perhaps then
these words i write won't look so lost
so naked.
maybe a carbon steel ballpoint pen
with high-grade stainless steel trimmings.
i could engrave my name on it.
with a pen like that, i think
i could write cryptic poetry
that would bewilder the masses.
then i speculate the possibilities
of stabbing myself to death with a pen like that
with my name engraved on it.
possibly if i hit a main artery
in my neck, i think
that could work.
but i can't afford a pen like that.

at least it smells good

my russian neighbor is beating his wife again
he screams like a little bitch
but she keeps it calm

the Hollywood night is once again flowing
with wonderful minacious sounds
helicopters, sirens and car-alarms
a lonely cry of lost love

whores do their nightly runway walk
their stiletto heels clicking and clacking
down the filthy sidewalk, outside my window

all the party-people
porn-stars, models and studio-executives
now intoxicated, they harvest the anger
sowed by traffic-jams and deals gone south
in the heat of the day

the russian is yelling again, hitting
she is calm
"shut the fuck up!", shouts my room-mate
it gets quiet for a while
long enough for me to fall asleep
to the sweet smell of jasmine

at least Hollywood smells good

do do do

i'm always planning a trip out to the desert
"one day i'm gonna move out there", i say
"what are you gonna do out there?", they ask
i'm gonna sit in a camping-chair
drink Bud Lights
and shoot my guns
"but what are you gonna DO?", they ask
just sit there
get drunk
let my mind go, and
maybe do some writing
"but you got to DO something", they insist

i hardly ever go out in the desert
i have so much shit to DO!

there's that

there's birth
there's life
there's death
i messed up the second one

a page

been cursing at this page for hours
yet, no words
i blame the hundred sheets, wide rule composition book.
it's you, and the lines
that leave no room to breathe
there are plenty to worry about
but we choose not knowing
we smile animosity, laugh hatred
kiss tears, in this orgy of mistrust
i scream at this piece of paper
cause i can't scream at you
my blue knuckles can't break every bone in your face
and leave you in a pool of broken promises
my fingernails cut into this sentence
like you cut into me
tearing flesh
chew my pencil, spit your bones
love you more than you'll ever know, i write.
i draw the moon, and pretend
that we look upon it
two stick-figures holding hands
we're happy, like we should be.

my cat is no longer with me

back in Oslo
living with my ex-girlfriend
we used to have a cat
she loved to drink coffee and watch the animal-channel
the cat that is
she would walk next to me wherever i went and would observe
my every move
trying to figure the ways of the human
my ex would complain that i loved that cat
more than i loved her
some days i did

i have this recurring dream
we are walking in the desert
she is right by my side
looking up on me, talking
the cat that is
her light steps, not leaving a trace in the sand
i am filled with peace
but when i wake
i feel utterly sad
her name was Nikita
she is no longer with me
my ex put her to sleep

self-eating heart

every time i've followed my heart
i have left someone, or something, or some place behind
it has taken me to where i am, sure
and i am happy with that
but every time i follow my heart
i seem to lose a part of it
it's like my heart is eating itself
is this healthy, or normal?
i don't know
have i made the right decisions?
it feels right, yet
still it hurts sometimes

nervous tick

my right eye started twitching today
a nervous tick
it has been there all day
but no-one has commented on it
they must have seen it
carrying a conversation is hard
when your eye has a life of it's own
and no-one says a thing
do you notice my nervous tick
i ask?
no,
no they say
and the twitching gets worse

the pink hotel

was walking down Wilcox today
past the pink hotel with the rats, the bums and the cockroaches
it's a nice place
i picture it back in it's heyday
before dreamland woke up to a nightmare
a drunken man is sitting there
in the window on the third floor
yelling at the prostitutes and the punk-kids
sometimes i wish i was just like him
the sad drunkard
like i once was
but i'm happy
by the pink hotel on Wilcox

damn squirrels, damn computer

i'm comfortable now
with the squirrels tiptoeing
on my roof
even tho it is not their roof
they have secrets they can't share
that keeps me awake

it's hard to rest
when even your sleep
robs you of your dreams

the squirrels are dancing
and i wonder what my poems are worth
roughly one kilobyte
says my computer
and i would have to agree with that

walk away

at the bar
i enjoy flirting with women
the ones with fake tits and fake smiles
even the ugly girls, fat and greasy
i feel the urge to fuck them as we talk
but then
when i sense they want the same
i lose all interest
and get filled with disgust
that's when they lean in for a kiss
and i walk away

synopsis of a suburban psychosis

(written with Petter and Ashley)


i don't like bugs, man
they're on to me with their beady eyes
exoskeletal spies
they crawl up my anus when i sleep
rearrange my dreams
my b-b-b-brain is seeping, creaking
improper thoughts are leaking
they know all about my responsibilities
and the filth! oh the filth!
they slurp it and they stare
in the heat of the hedonistic hellfire
are they laying eggs?
egg-brain!
hatching judgment

i don't wanna talk about bugs anymore

naked flower-stick

(written with Petter and Ashley)


watch out for my beating-stick
i warned myself
my anger has been collecting dust
but i will polish it
is it beautiful?
it's skewed and dark, that much is obvious
i'm a hunter when i'm naked
my opinions chew your meat
your meat is neat
my marbles are brass
i will stick my beating prick up your ass
then give you flowers to cover up the mad
it's kinda sad
i only feel when i feel bad
will this ever end
this self-inflicted blame
one time i want less of the same

the other day, was a year ago

the other day, was a year ago
my mind wandered i guess
it does that sometimes
and my life is passing by
if you ask what i've done
i will laugh
loud and confident
and point to these words
you see?
i wrote a poem
what else do you want from me, you maggot?

one day i'll be old
it happens so fast
my mind will wander
and never come back
so you don't like this poem, you bastard?
well, i wrote it one day when my mind wasn't there
and i'm good at pretending
that i really don't care

goddamn this nonsense

there is something stuck in my brain

i have painful lumps of shame
angry pieces of memory stuck in my mind
in the corners and corridors
clogging my brain
killing any chance of sane conversations
the pills i took
i let them down
but pills are merely make-up
disguising the most disgusting of emotions
i've read the labels
searched the shelves
but what i'm looking for
it isn't there
mental-floss
for mental care

lawn-chair

oh, those late nights in my courtyard
sweating from that mean summer heat
the bluegrass from inside reach my lawn-chair
fills me with sin
my foot tapping gently along to the rhythm
the mosquito suck my blood
but i let it
cold beers, sweet tears, in the light from my porch
that single uncovered light-bulb, adding a faint buzz to the music
i add my own words to the summer sounds
then i fall asleep there
in my lawn-chair
the mosquito suck my blood
and i let it

...

was thinking today
about how much i hate homeless people
and how bad i feel
for stray kittens

sad-corner

i have a good friend
sometimes he is in the sad-corner
he is small in the night
i will talk into the shadow
try to see him
i stare until my mind gets dark
and my eyes see
what he sees
then i'm right there with him
in the sad-corner
it's not that bad to get lost
if you're not alone

bird by the pool

i once wished that i was a bird
it's silly, i know
i don't remember what kind of bird
but that's not important
i wouldn't be flying all that much
just stroll around, poolside at the mirage hotel in las vegas
i would dip my beak in the water on those hot desert days
and suck on cherries from drinks left behind
it's not that much about being a bird
more a fear of responsibility
but maybe birds have responsibilities too
i don't know
do you?

my wall

years ago in Oslo
when it was always winter
i would take too many pills
because i was always drunk
and i would forget that i had taken my pills
my couch got old while i was sitting there
the wall got tired of me staring at it
and it disappeared
i could hear the drunks outside
laughing and singing
man, how i hated them
i was drunk inside
staring at nothing
where my wall used to be
and i disappeared

toilet

isn't it awful
using other peoples toilet
when you take a shit
and you really have to go
but it's so hard
cause you're nervous they might hear you
and when you're done
there is no toilet-brush and no air-freshener
and the porcelain has a stripe of brown shit going down it
and it smells
and you're nervous
cause someone is gonna walk in right after you
and then you have to meet their faces at the table later
they all stare at you
and you're nervous