For Now I am Winter
Merman How could you forget who you were when you were a whale, who breathed through a hole, to the core of flesh, and into the open of bella blu, equal to a moan of death from an immature and pitiful man recently come into being listening to the violet-blue tones of blues and how you are lamenting with your head under the sea without letting oxygen and carbon dioxide be transported between blood and Atmos through the outermost layer of flesh in and out of the salt and how you could forget that humans are not whales, who dives and store oxygen in the blubber's inner nerve like you hide your demons in a pitch-black cellar
Flower song to an elephant I stand in the middle of a field in Panbari, fifty kilometres east of Gauhati, India and in the middle of the mud lies a dead elephant, a divine animal, which I cover with red and white flowers. The body lies still, but I can hear the holy animal talk to me again, and I give it the name Baccē, as I would call my own child, and love it with each and every molecule of my body. And I embrace the elephant, like I would afflict my dead child to the ribcage, while singing: Main tumse pyar karti hoon Main tumse pyar karti hoon I love you, I love you and when spring arrives the flowers will continue to grow and heal your body, and I will remember you; even when your skin, body and inside becomes ash, and what you once were becomes nourishment for the lotus flowers as a memory of you and those who soon will wake.
Burnmarks horses keep guard, and is watching each other out on the fields, when autumn arrives, and the sun lays slightly lower for each October day, when the grass grows from the sky, down on the heads and faces, like burn marks, on the skin, as a symbol of who they are
Earl Grey I do not know what it is that makes me feel like a sprouting flower, spring’s attempt to wake us up from cold November nights and frost on the windows, when you talk to me, or what it is that makes my legs feel like honey and saxophones, just that you move through me like viscose, and therefore I can never forgive you, for having forgotten me, and when the autumn takes back the ownership of the leaves, the tree knows that after the death of winter they will come back, as a child is born.
You were always what I loved the most with winter cold lips, and our frosty exhalation between them. Dear, I do not want you to remember this. I want you to sing praises in major and never hear the piano tones in minor. Read the books I left for you, look after the smell of parfait d’amour – summer roses, violets, and the sweet, soothing fragrance of almond trees, and “Por San Valentino, Los Almendros florecidos,” you say. Bring bread curbs to the park and give it to the birds, remember, they are hungry, as the emptiness in the bloated stomachs. Bade her in cherry flowers and give her Indian tea as a gift, just as the grateful Chinese thanked Charles Grey for saving his son from being swallowed by the ocean
A place outside Tellus When we die our body disappears, while the soul continues to exist, so when we die hundreds of silk bands are broken, flowing with the wind, becoming a part of the flower beds in the concrete towns, the green forests, the majestic mountains and the rock tones a late night in the streets of Oslo. Silk ribbons that once were tied around the hands and feet of man goes apart, but one day we will be reunited somewhere beyond what we know as Tellus. Outside of what we know as time and space, light and dark. All I know is that they are out there, right beside us, in a parallel. Even a person who runs out of time, will have a bit of themselves in this world, because the silver cord connects us to the soil light, which in the spring will start to give us the fragrant lilac bushes, the white anemones in the middle of the forest, the yellow heads at the roadside. Just like this, the spring flowering and the nascent birdsong, shall remind us of the disintegrating people who have gone out of our time, and into another.
Only the canopy is close enough to dance with heaven I see how the branches bicker about who should be allowed to grow into heaven: In the wind they practice their dance in a three quarters rate that we should have danced, and in the tree trunks there was one name
Therapy To keep our own heart in hand and study the scar tissue
Ocean room You sit in a room underneath the ocean where the sharks swim around your eyes of glass as transparent walls round an infinite universe of turbid water The gray beast with black eyes and fangs stares at you through a loupe from above and you have switched places from the deepest ocean to a milk white circle where you swim through a galaxy and you close your eyes: give me the moon and sun
Train human An old and farsighted man sits on the train station in the summer night with a rolled newspaper in one hand and a can of beer in the other, and every five seconds he is drinking his beer as if this is the last thing he is going to do, before he takes on his sack, and disappears into the darkness between high-rised buildings and town homes twelwe minutes after midnight then, comes the rain
(your name) today is a hole after you and the rain falls down from the sky on my window as the undivided drops of rain water I miss you and I miss you like the withered roses, a smile as the snow in the city streets and the silence between the snowflakes and when I wake you are still here
scar hole she is the darkness who never shrinks, she is the deep ocean in my chest that never fades and the hole inside my ribs etches away the entrails little by little while words becomes scars, and the heart beats thud, thud
In the night She blinks and sees half, closes her eyes and sees it all in a room bathed in blue light from the third eye looking down at us, and guards when the rain grows from heaven like grass on the fields eaten by horses
To be awake There is something about letting the sounds of darkness being soothing, and hear the freight trains come past breathing and hissing outside the window in the summer nights feel the body being open for all senses, blue shadows of trees intruding there is something liberating to experience the world at night, the feeling of letting go and the feelings that usually does not appear, are released among blue-black trees and birds chirping into a world where we are not alone
Scar memory The blue scars of hers fades, she is the bleaching blue who never disappears and the lights from the ambulance flashing, blinking with open eyes
To be something: when I wake beside myself in my sheets, while I think of who I was and how you, the sentient trace the lines of my face while my eyes rot, sprouts flowers it is spring!
To be and listen, listen to the trumpet sounds and let yourself live again
it is summer!