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