9 oktober

Jag har skapat ett parallellt universum där du lever

Det möjliggör att sorgen går att avboka

I den här världen minns vi dig när vi är tillsammans

Du pusslas ihop över ett middagsbord

En tradition på din födelsedag

Så stort är mysteriet

att denna dikt kan appliceras

på alla som gått bort.

Ensamheten har inget eget svar för oss som blev kvar

I tomrummen vikarierar fantasin.

Multiuniversum konstruerade för att vi skulle kunna drömma bortom

de diskbänksrealistiska helveten vi lärt känna

I den här världen döden är avmystifierad och usel.

Full av saknad. Utan svar.

Därför låter jag andra världar skapas

..att andas har värde över att kapas

Söndagsönskningar

Jag glömde att se poesin i siffror

bland högar av blanketter

De skickas runt i ett kretslopp

Det kallas kommunikation

Kallas sysselsättning

Synonymt till fängelsearbete

Men sådana utsägelser

tycker vissa

Är för starka.

Vissa tycker

att folk som delar med sig

för mycket av sina insidor

är Magstarka.

Och magstark är ingen bra sak.

Vissa tycker

att flickor med muskler

är Magstarkt

Och vissa blir inte imponerande

när de får höra hur mycket en person kan bära på

För de tycker att det är Magstarkt

Bara tanken

på bärande.

Jag skulle vilja skriva poesi som lyfter fängelsegaller

Eller drar vårvindar genom salar där gruppterapin hålls

Poesi som får poeten att glömma att det inte finns pengar i orden

Och alla som läser

att glömma att det finns pengar.

Agustina den vackra och fria

Agustina säger att jag ska ringa mina vänner innan de slutar vara vänner

Så jag ringer från portarna vid affären

Jag ringer porttelefoner och skriver SMS

så. långa.

Så pinsamt långa

Och jag har ett kvitto i fickan som jag river hål på

Och Agustina vill slå sönder fönsterrutorna på bilarna som står parkerade

De med andnings-immade rutor som om någon låg därinne

- med eller utan vilja?

De bygger om i hela världen. Agustina undrade precis

om det verkligen var nödvändigt när framtiden är så opålitlig som den är

Skulle du haft råd med en biljett till en bunker med wifi om hela kvarteret snart exploderar?

Någon annanstans går någon förbi Shellmacken, men är inte alls välkommen in (inte efter en kvarting) (inte på kaffe).

Agustina pratar skånska i mitt huvud för att inte vara den sävligaste någonsin och för mig att kunna skilja på olika toner

hon säger att jag ska ta andra gator ikväll

rädd som jag ser ut

när någon passerar

Punkten där stapeldiagrammens axlar möts kallas för Orions bälte och Agustina kan matematik

Hon kan dela upp mitt ansikte i sextondelar och kassera det som blir ojämnt

Jag kan kväva tidsaxeln till döds men Agustina kan räkna

Identifierar 15 möjliga sätt för kvällen att gå åt helvete på en onsdag

med det mesta grundat i att jag

aldrig klarade den där kursen i spanska

på gymnasiet.

Jag är drottningen av fantasin och paranoia i mitt slott med Agustina

Agustina Agustina

Den vackra och fria

*Agustina är kod för angustia, spanska för ångest.

Imagine him gone

Imagine him gone like days to grasp for

In my bed, holding only

wrinkled sheets washed thinner

Sometimes clinging to my body, now not anymore

When I am sweaty and tumbling around

- may it be in my bed,

Or

some one else’s

Nightmares on my pillows

L

You got eyes

painted like the ocean

crystallizing me into staying

And then you put earthquakes into my bones

I think that's your rhytm

I think it's your song

My heart writes poetry on standby now

and facing each hour of lost sleep.

Reality too is relative

oh, the taste of you is so bittersweet today

20 years of ((suck my body dry)) walking

mouth’s packed with marshmallows, childhood games, swollen sugar on my cocksuckerlips

I don’t like extremes for no reasons. Soduko on your phone at eight two five

Spitting out hard- pronounced words some times and practising the lazer with my eyes...

Mom and dad, I lied in all those postcards. I’m trying to make noise sound like music and trying to put caotic numbers in cross-cross caotic order

on wednesday I have no plans and

I never went to that botanic garden

But the zoo- part was true

2 euros skinny animals people were feeding them breadsticks through the metal bars

and the melting asphalt highways back

were just one watch away from Salvador Dali

To the man in the bookshop on the day of the Paro in Palermo, Buenos Aires 290519

I will die for you

Or I’ll live for you

It doesn’t mean a shit to me

Thanks for the coffee! Thanks,

and thanks for showing me the books

without wanting nothing in return but maybe another soul in the world who reads what you consider to be tip top

literature. (The top notch literature)

Even if you had to make it in yourself for them to actually read the material.

Can I ask you Why you didn’t strike on the day we met?

Was it a money- cause or boredom? You kept dusting of newly made old books but we did talk and we did drink coffee, you seemed to be another young hipster with a pledge to read the printed word

You held Kafka cups in your fumbling hands and helped tourists find books

You might have been aspiring to smoke cigars and grow a beard

but maybe you tired of cigarettes half way through and lived without that prejudice inflicted onto you

(that you had to like tobacco to be intellectual)

Any way, I just wrote to say thanx.

Your existance saved me from a boring day.

Now I have your book and this poem, to cover up a whole in my chest,

that just now started reminding me

of it’s ache.

Letters: Memory cards

Sitting in the dark I felt there was something I had forgotten

There was an interrupted dream at night while my sleep had been

<pausing><starting>

and <pausing>

until all the stories were mixed up.

There was us acting cartoonish on the sofa

he held my hands like he was praying

the heavy in his look made time tripple

I used my own heartbeats to count (four per second maybe)

He looked at me like I was already dead under the pressure of my own self inflicted sadness

...There was another thing I had forgotten

a piece of memory flying by like a silk scarf

wrapping itself around my forehead to sing quiet hymns and remind me of...

An adult gathering on a bus

beneath the neon lit roof we sat with headphones to create individual soundtracks of sorts

my curious eyes 

were cutting the air in pizza slices

wishing more people had viewed it as a silent disco

but also me granting them the sleep I could see in their siluettes that they so desperately needed

the sleep that we all need

There was something else I had forgotten.

A room at a party. I sat in a circle of exchanging gazes over the space of a round IKEA table. 

I think we were playing with memories that day, and you asked Sandra how it went with that shy friend she had brought to a party once.

How the hell could someone remember a party?

I don't think it would have mattered if I was drunk.

Parties fall away into a memory train were only the scripts remain

Until you are at a new party they sit in this train library, and when you use them again,

it feels the same but you won't know

I remember a ceremonial laughter stuck in my ears while I wandered home

You don't really wear a lot of coloured clothes so I remember each one.

Here's an axe pick: The aqua blue shirt you never wear, the green reggaeton one and the long sleeved with a print of a dude with a big cigarr, stained by ketchup

You think they all look cheap and capitalistic, thats what you said

when I pointed out how your wardrobe look like a massive black hole

But I don't know.

You have asked me three or four times why I don't remember so much and implied it a few other times. Because I don't have a straight answer I just go with laughter, but a feeling of guilt stabs me each time.

I can't remember much of when I was five. I have black holes throughout all the years and most nights. I think my brain is damaged, some times, but I've thought that maybe it's more that I choose what should stick and what should not. Or I'm too busy keeping an open eye, for new information

Or maybe I bruise easily. Maybe I need to be tougher around the edges.

I played memory cards with your little sister once and I couldn't win so I blamed it on her young age. But deep down I knew it was my lack of remembering: What's hurtful is maybe when I forget something that's treasured by you, and you don't wanna think badly about me. I should apologize but I can't remember how many times I have apologized, or if I have really done that, or if I really have anything I've done _in reality_ I should apologize for. Maybe it's just my head being fucked again and starting to think the way I work is wrong because I can't see it represented in other peoples brains.

I would like to prove that time is round, or goes a bit how it wants sometimes, but I can't remember or understand what anyone has told me about Einstein. Maybe I should try to learn again. There are many school books I should go back to actually cause there is so much lost to time now. All off the gossip, too. I don't think it'll ever come back. But past time is memories painted in colour and alive and I have lost my childhood but the more colorful other years has been, the more experience I have anyway. Maybe time is life spent learning, learning all kinds of things both small and big, and you have to learn to remember. If many things are the same, you won't remember them, no matter how outstretched they lay on a big amount of time. Present time is more crucial and some times you can loose that too. I'm trying not to.

I'm not sure that this text too will stop feeling like a dream after you try to make sense of it. Maybe a new reality will unfold little by little when I press send. Or maybe, I just opened another window to the black space between the lines of every persons thoughts. The star constellations and depth that's between the information parts proven to be real, the edges for us to hold onto, our commonly understood reality.

Sandras friend got home fine that night and she made some new friends. Sandras friend, got home fine, that night she made new friends. The feeling in her gut had evolved and she felt she really would remember that party. The yellow black dotted drapes and a special smile in someones face and a change from being in her own place.

Your wardrobe is a black hole and you don't wear any symbols or information. It's interesting to think about you and if time with you is a dream, I'm glad either way. You are timeless in what you wear. I think my memories of you in the end will be gathered to a sharp portrait with the colours and motions in your face of many many years. A timelapse moving like the pictures in papers in Harry Potter. And the feeling will be from all the memories equal, not just the last ones.

It is with my love for you in my heart I go to bed warm tonight. Thank you for letting me spill my words here and for picking them up.

I love you always

tu Feli

stories: Campari

You tell me you don’t like to run under the sun. I tell you I don’t like to run at all, no matter the climate. I wouldn’t want to increase the effect the sun already has on me, and are you crazy, under the SUN? People do that? What kind of people?

 

You don’t smile, you don’t even smirk, and I’m thankful for your lack of humour - this evening is not about polite jokes and polite laughters, it’s how we work - we spill our beans and our pains and continue onward. That’s how we don’t need each other, just someone,- and it’s our dirty escape - we are selfish and we are troubled and maybe we deserve to die, maybe we deserve to live, for the moment I can’t really make up which is the worst. My thoughts are older than I am or anyone I know, they are older than the clock.

 

I once met a lady fox on the beach, chasing the moonlight off of her feet.

 

”I once tried running, to escape time and to escape hunger, trying to make existance a bit

less

real.” I tell you, with envy, ‘cause you make it seem so doable finding yourself i’m starting to think you will find me too

straight out of charity;

 

         ”but sometimes,” I say, ”sometimes I can feel

         the end of the world,

         in every breath, every spoken word, making it so uncomfortable to be here, drinking this campari.

And most of the time I am thankful for nothing. Not even time doing it’s job just fine, so I can visit other kinds of here’s and now’s...”

Before I continue I raise my glass to say ”for love is a terrible and confusing science we do not master”, and we are clychés, and most people are crocodiles or jokers or liars, I think, but maybe tonight it doesn’t apply to our melancolic bones, If we suffer enough we can not be monsters, and I’m so drunk I almost believe myself as I’m turning around to make a stupid toast and you’re asleep in your chair, and i’m left here with the sound...

 

The sound of you sleeping.

It makes me afraid of dying.

I mean death

I mean you dying, and leaving me with what’s left; utter silence, approaching sun, dishes in my zink.

The way I am constructed would never make me drink to forget.

 

So I sit. Watch the nightsky tangle itself into the heaven lakes - less drastic than how the blue velvet curtain would fall down on stage, finishing off all the fucking drama- but the same principle.

And I try to feel something today. But new thoughts won’t come and old won’t go away. So I continue to sit.

I drink my drink and you’re sleeping and maybe I’m sleeping too. The streets below us are swept clean by the dark and I’m finally out of Campari. Later I will force myself to a walk among the trash and dogs and streetlights that just don’t care, in fact they swear they’ve seen me before, but they could never be sure,

-  people look so alike to streetlamps. We are all shadows to streetlamps.

And maybe tonight I will find another human to bury myself into and maybe I’ll die after I do.

Love is a terrible and confusing science I cannot solve watching street cats and dogs fighting, I cannot hear from the sound of your silence.

...But tonight I won’t stay and find out about it.

 

- I’m a clysché

I'm a crocodile, a joker, a liar

Sahara

We walk in her hand

kissed yellow from the sun

wrinkled from all these years

she still carries the memory of the ocean-

At night we sleep in peace

in her waving skin

A hotel with million of stars

 

And there’s nothing to say

just look

And there’s nothing to think

just feel

Tomorrow we will see the big waking up

and I bet we will feel different by then

I bet she will use her mothers touch, remove the

sandbags beneath our eyes,

chase the trail of nightmares off the site

just before something comes to bite-

These open spaces are tricky sometimes

 

Ask the

longlost hikers

They seem to be so close

But Sahara runs secrets across her pretty mind,

just to absorb

to feed the trees

to grow shade from the burning skies

© by F. E. RO 2019