loneliness

loneliness,
she is no longer a random guest,
but rather a large force amassing
within this space we inhabit.
sucking meaning out of the void.
loneliness,
she is sick of what i have become,
and i am still in love with who she used to be.
we are full of each other,
like drugs in our blood.
her presence, rude and crushing,
anchoring me to the slowest perception of time.
loneliness,
she no longer inspire.
communication boiled down to misconstrued gestures.
this relationship, we can not end.
we are one, not in love,
separated only by name.
loneliness,
she is me.
this unease with which we live.

the silent city

there i lived,
knowing i was far from home.
that pallid cityscape,
a monochromatic blandness-fuck,
where only a faint cry
kept the wheels of time turning.
behind the window
the city is always silent.
only, my head was running rampant
in the sewage-system.
my deadness
rising in a stinking mist from the manholes,
among all the people,
out in that filthy night.
all the people, all the people...
that flesh-wound fucking itself.
multiplying, dying, pulsating, gyrating
emotion-pus,
greased thick on their faces, on the buses,
on the sidewalk, on office-buildings, and trains,
and politicians, and the royal-family, and, and...
naturally, i escaped
with most of my dignity and shame still intact.
too bad then,
i left my head in those smelly tunnels.

headful

my lord! you're a fuck
a long hard fucky fuck
well into the a.m, and not properly intoxicated
i wanna destroy the language
grind it to dust
watch it dance in the air as the sun comes up
shit, anyway...
a headful of mute words
stop stop stop, go to bed
make sleepy sleeps, dreamy dreams
this is shit
shit upon shit
and i no longer get laid - it doesn't matter
already tomorrow
go to bed with no words
just a headful of night
my lord! you're a fuck
one more beer, i beg you
then i'll rest

train

riding from the eastside,
on the subway
heading into downtown Oslo.
the old trains have a certain beat to them.
they seem to be the only things beating
in a city of winter hearts.
on my way home from another unforgiving workday.
listening to the rhythm of the tracks,
i glance out the window,
at the wast loneliness passing by.
i share this train with pale faces,
consumed by skeletal dreams.
"someone kill me" begs the bum by the sliding doors.
we come together as a group now,
collectively ignoring him.
"no" he says, changing his mind.
"someone give me a beer"
we, the pale, hide our eyes behind newspapers,
fearing that one day,
we too will be bums
standing by sliding doors,
begging for beer or death.
all the while not knowing, that
outside the train there are plenty of both.

phone-calls

bored.
so often confused.
more and more i want to become confusion.
be that false fabricated reality,
weaved so seamlessly into the textures of real reality,
that people can no longer tell what they are looking at.
make random phone-calls to foreign countries.
order take-out in Provence,
listen to the ocean in Talcahuano.
call Marrakesh and smell my phone,
then wake up innocent men in Helsinki
with uncontrolled screams into the speaker.
some will yell back,
funny sounding words.
we could communicate like wild animals,
in different time-zones.
add some twisted undercurrent
to the flow of information.
a child-like approach to disruption of patterns.
all this i want
just to kill twenty minutes of my day.