First book in English. 




(Reblogged, rewritten and now included in THE SOLSTICE WELL.)

A writer writing about writing. How very original of me. You can skip by this article…

I have been writing some kind of poetry for over twenty years now and I clearly remember the first words penned down that were found a little too good to throw away. After that initial shock I gathered bits here and there, and it felt natural for me to write. I had to. It was really all I had at that time.

Initially, it was mostly about my personal suffering, what I could remember bits of and get hold of at that time, with my empty hope attached to it. Little did I acknowledge how bad my life really had been and were to become… I still write a bit like that today. I guess that it would be seen as very egoistic to do that kind of self-indulgence if I didn’t, big hearted as I am, include everyone and everything within that aspect of myself. Right? Right. I was walking around thinking and planning poetry in the supposedly intellectual town of Uppsala, and later in the supposedly “arty and semi-intellectual” part of Stockholm, Södermalm, for a few years. I did write some manuscripts that took forever and three or four days to make. Later on that got burnt up in mysterious fires, set by myself. I planned on starting up a small book publishing company as I have always been more attracted to planning the “business side” more than the actual writing. I think that at some point in my life, around fourteen years of age, I found it to be smarter to let others produce the normal junk and me mostly working with their junk instead. Sadly, few people did have interest in making their junk for me to handle at first, so I had to go down the drain first… (Story of my life.)

I never had the common thinking that if I take part in anything that it would have any shared part of me. The “guilt by association”, or if good a “shared status”. That is a retarded thinking, in most cases. Of course, if I did produce something negative with intent to harm or hurt something that is positive then it would be despicable. I guess, or rather I know, that I more just liked to picture myself as a writer than actually being one. I guess most writers do, the writing is not something any good writer like to do… I do try to avoid telling people that I write a bit, not only as I have published so little, it is more about the questions that follow suite. Also, the notion that if you write you must be really smart. I have a problem with that as I’m really dumb.

I often hear that most poets are amateurs, seeing that they rarely can sell enough to be called professional writers. This is mostly from people that seldom can find anything of value other than what kind of money something can bring; in order to set food on their table. Otherwise it is just air. They might be right in a sense. Anyway, this degeneration in sales of poetry is nothing to wonder about at all. Poetry today is mostly crap that has nothing interesting to say to anyone. And, it has been that way for hundreds of years due to the lack of Knowledge, a lack of everything really. That poetry has gone even more downhill since the Second World War ended is hardly worth noticing; that is just my universal and valid opinion. All these personal scribbling’s about love and suffering, all these simple and not knowledgeable thoughts on society and life, and all that plain nonsense that is thrown around in general, it is offending to me. For those that use poetry as a dumpster, where they with great exaggeration express “feelings”, really should start to search for other playgrounds as it deeply harms poetry. These “poets” have given up on poetry as the vehicle for Truth. Now they are writing poetry for the sake of writing and posing with it as “poetry”. Am I better than these described hazards? It is a question of reference points. Most do not understand, or care, what I write, but they will.

Have the poets given up to be the leaders for their folk? Do they try to be the teachers or would that just be impossible in today’s sad state of it all? We the poets; these visionaries, these Truth-seekers, the highest thinkers, the hunters in the ultimate quest to bring beauty, real freedom and Knowledge back to this world. Is it all lost as a goal for most to at least try? Is this a fait accompli? I personally see very little of interest in verse and rhyme, it is more or less the same silly melodies again and again, and then again. Most of versed and rhymed poetry is to be read like songs for children even if it deals with death and suffering. With free verse we have another problem. It is mostly just prose in hiding. Foul and boring. Have you heard anyone complain that poetry is boring? I have heard myself say that in my mind so many times now that it’s not even funny.

Strangely enough, other forms of literature, that all at some point in history have been derived from poetry, have much more impact on society at the moment. These are trends of little significance, I might add. The form is slightly different, but the content is more or less just boring dumb junk in all literature. I remember twenty years ago when I sent my poetry manuscripts (Under a taken name, as I was not really content with my writing at all. Still kind of wished to be published though…) to publishers; that they actually told me to write some kind of detective novels, or at least novels instead. Never. I wouldn’t defile myself with low class writing like that. Ha! Never! I guess I share this with most people that write poetry. We are so proud. (Well… I did write a “novel” that took me over two years to write, and was never really completed or seen by anybody other than me. That one is gone in a fire since long ago now. It was not a sell-out… I should have kept that one. Nah.)

I do see a real future for “poetry”. A future where it lyrically will never again be seen as just equal to the often empty lyrics made for music. Never to be seen upon as personal problems voiced by the angst-ridden in their need. Not as just some simple structures to please the simple minded sing-a-long-people with. Poetry will become a strong weapon against nothingness itself. I will of course be the leader. Where will you be?

(All irony to be found here is very unintentional.)






Awaken in the moment mists climb the mountain


Writing three words; Not a word ―

on molten fragile leaves the winds have thrown around


I hasten there, up to, close to almond trees in its new,

refilling calm and leaving behind tears from a joyous

that will soon trickle me away fast against this world

as missed moments of beauty finds sorrows for days


Eagles and ravens follow through the valley glen

home to how Wind caresses the clouds slightly ― Home


Here ― over these chamomilestrewn tracks that meanders

on a gathered freodpath far away from the wound’s revilers


Hold me as one always awaited, present and sorely missed,

owning these memories that was worthy to be left alone

and continue to blossom sweetly here, even after my death



Shifting ―

Moving eyes between Light and the afterglow of darkness

The night has torn itself, sending lovewords to the Universe again,

kissing the stars eyes softly, tenderly, without any frailty to remain






Here all eyes begin

and take us from seeing

of sagacious similarities

home to the realities


Strewing you with thistles,

for that to be sieved is already dead


Taking my blue away from your eyes

A slab of meat left


Taking those mirrors of shallowness

Striking the laughter you gave


Duped remained your life

Taking you



Given you have been by the hours of light

which trickled down here through the clouds

as you were destined to among us be found,

but step by step your betrayal was nurtured


I spoke straight to the carrdrowned

where the bitterness of his grave met:


Your blanket was of a cloven glory

while Oaths gone and freely piggied

and strolled around after suckling


Now denied you cry in your sty


Eyes opening

Core falling on stone

Flower nevermore


Now the meat ends

Ripping Önd from The Path

To die right is the greatest


You have come to The Path’s end.




Leaned against this mirkened fence
are we found equally bleached,
beaten by sun, rain and winter cold

The wait was like cracks around ice-holes,
in cold, unreliable and of inadequacy,
for the scum’s loopholes, nonsensical sidetracks,
refused me to blossom anew during withering

It all carried on, kept creating that ― nothing,
when all of this suffering bred forth its pitifulness
So, show me a memory freed from complaint here,
but honourable shall to my eyes can only Knowledge be

I am the quarry of Life’s faults
with my pathfound steps

Always feared

Always hailed





How embarrassing you have become,

your scent too near the madhouse
sings its sorrows without any good motives

What wisdom has cannot be used

 when what wisdom lacks is asked for

From the remains think yourself clean
and take the heart freed from words,

for the thoughts upon your path

where no one wish for to wander

crawl down in the ground

where nothing can grow

and carve ruins of the years

to a paltry salary

in shadowlike kneeling,

in self-effacing moaning


Clean tears fall only in words,
consolidated under vanity´s shelter
where they have loved with barbed wire and mockery

to a great thrill for all our words´ tragic handouts…


Words to the sting, given joy filled lust,
to wishing wells´ finalized completions,
made to participating, present answers
Near the Altar of Fate nailed to remain.

Most alike the believed picture of you is hailed,
or creeps down to another backlash reaction
and becomes its own conclusions´ executioner;
slanderer, and eventually the own wills whore
therein depredated flesh from the thoughts sit
as harrowed, in ridiculous unpalatable qualms,
hailing spilling, tearing down inherited rights,
while monarchy and democracy lie stupidity

upon a conspiring and deranged slaughter table

under imitation, unwanted shiny residues,

showing the highest heights´ devised murder


Spring water in swamps will swamp water be.




Being cut new scars

Being made new deathwords

All new wither anew
Overripe means rotten

Sculpted stone is stone!
Teach the autumn leaves survival!

Cleanse me from your surfaces.

Cobweb shudder
Captured hung in pieces

Coldembraced, misharvested and patinated

At home in permafrost

Sole host and sole guest
Left burned out

Send my well documented threatening letters to Suffering
No answer

Send a complaint to the Castalian spring










Our Sun rites belong to all districts
inside of Sunsigned and Treesigned

Remaining here until the Olympian

Give life, loved!
Give life in this chilled air
Give life in this sight over the district

The Observer
cared for autographs of symbolism
and honëstly missed glad memories
all while the creeks so deeply dug
had not yet reached to the oceans

The Collector
wished for words of diamonds,
an utility game against vermin´s dancing
That the pen, the weak´s defense,
once again would usurp the feel of living

Numbing unwillingness is starved

Nightly cleansing baths

Drinking healing spring water as an obsessed

The Sun glitters over the valley