Opposite his window a bus stop.
Three girls lean against a picket fence
and laugh. It's seven in the morning
with damp air crawling  past crinkled
curbstones. One of the girls suddenly

turns round, and points her finger
at him. "Kook!" Slowly she licks
her middle finger, mouth wide open,
her tongue is rose, he can see
it from behind his curtain. Her friends

prod her in the ribs and hiss. She throws
her hair back, her laughter breaks
the open window. "I know you're there!"
He jumps back before he realizes
she can't see him. Her laughter penetrates

his curtain. Then silence. For a moment
he can hear his breath. Far away buzzing
draws nearer. The girls get on the seven five.
He stands at the window, his eyes follow
the bus until it disappears behind the corner.
 

Drowning

Skotos is Greek for "darkness".
Obscurity, the common symbol
of horror and death,
a hole in space, time and reality,
the complete absence of noise.

Now, sinking, I feel that deadly
silence of timelessness
combined with the impossibility
of communication.

Isolated from human feelings
the sunrays touch my skin,
unable to burn, unable to hurt
the silence.
 

Hot Shots
Blondes have more fun

Anette was the blondest girl
I ever met.
She served Hot Shots and cool looks
garnished with chocolate lips
in a little restaurant round the corner.
I'm sure she could make angels blush
with her ice cream
eyes.

I used to sit at the bar and talk with her
in simple Swedish.
She smiled at me secretly,
and when I left Stockholm she told me
she'd miss me and kissed me goodbye.
In return, I promised I'd dye
my hair even blonder than
hers.
 

 Falling...

Finally I try to see things as they are:

The tiny windmill on top of the hill
growing bigger with every step I take

see

Swallows fly by in strange formation
ripping thunderclouds under lightning

hear

Sails slice the air, swirling
like fallen angels, falling angels, falling...

smell

Summer wheat crawling up the slope
bending under the breeze

taste

Haze, rising from the meadows
like wisps of passing memories

feel

Air
tickle the palms of my hands,
damp air filled with

Water
that clings to the stones
by the wayside

Earth
born stones as I see,
now that I see

Fire
flickers around
the windmill sails

shooting up, reaching the swallows,
swallows the birds and the angels,
the tiny mill still withstanding,
standing on top of the hill

Finally I try to see things as they are...

Falling...
 
 

Pretender

So you are able to make statues
step down from their pedestals
through the power of your words?

Try to move flesh before you begin
with marble, poor friend, unable
to distinguish between hot and cold.

Find the difference between life and pretense,
between words and acts. Then come back
and try moving my brain out of its bowl.
 
 

 Six

When I first saw him,
I immediately thought he was a killer.

For sure he was a giant,
the surviving son of angels,
a left over nephilim,
at least
a descendant of some ancient hero

... and I caught myself wondering
if everything on him was as big
as his muscles...

Standing behind me he thoroughly
scanned the reflection of my body
in the huge mirrors.
I already felt his bronze hands
run over the inside of my  vibrating thighs
probably in search of some hidden weapon.

His lips parted as he gazed at me,
the helplessly stretched out victim,
tied down for his relentless examination,
my back nailed to this incline bench.
I could almost feel his breath burning
greedy holes into my exposed limbs
as he now stood over me,
his half naked chest
covered with the musty odor of  fresh sweat.

“Once again!"
His hoarse voice roughened
the skin of my nude stomach,
as my muscles tensed and I began to moan.
His hands drew nearer, close to my face
and when he gripped the long dumb-bell
to support my push I recognized
that each of his hands had six fingers
instead of five.
 
 

Star Turn

Slowly the midwinter night's cold
invades her lecherous veins...
an undesired flood of dark shades,
passing silhouettes of slain lovers
crushed  on the slippery steps
of her staircase to heaven.

This night in Stockholm is filled
with clear blue ice and callous stories
about horny Dutch singers,
kneeling stoned in the muddy snow,
between band bus and PA lorry,
long hair covered with splashes of fame.

Johan offers steel eyes and slices
of luck  on his bold blond face - the feel
of swelling flesh on drowning lips,
dripping with pleasure, a liquid fire
that melts away frozen dreams
underneath lashes of broken oaths.

There on the street her pride vanishes
under Johan's experienced touch.
Blunt desire causes even stars to explode...
People gather, applauding and shouting
for her - and for a little moment
she wonders as the stage is still dark.