Just found out that I have three of my paintings included in the new issue of Free Lit Magazine. Made it to the cover. I rarely publish myself anywhere other than on my websites, so go and enjoy this!
But you, come here and right me to gladly become your wrongs.
Taking swings with swords aimed at your neck.
Slaying now your words without hold.
But you, with your head off you will shut it by yourself later on?
Killing all the insane’s dreams.
Killing doesn’t trouble me mentionable,
worse would be if this wasn’t done, with One,
for in the unknowing nothing is learnt
except for a piece of meat that will die.
Fully fooled will get killed
with the aged and worn inscription:
KNOW WHAT YOU BELIEVE
But see! This went uncurtailed home to nil experience.
Content with digging up justice for the unjust bastards
and want a grudge in being worst animal for pity.
(In a contemporaneously; hear the stinking retards
scream lies about their own attraction and full dignity.)
Have here emptyhanded freed the cultivated,
have in haste dug up violated non-years as they sow:
BELIEVE WHAT YOU KNOW.
But, that which is unwanted drags down that which is wanted:
scum rave so usefully and pigheadedly,
letting vexed be and very quickly search for more.
Lying unconscious and conscious.
Striking at life with a weak: “Possibly”,
to always use as an approvable excuse to throw:
KNOW WHAT YOU KNOW.
who tear up easier by your executioner’s songs
than your own imposed and legitimated sorrows, listen:
we do know that our world is decayed and everywhere raped
with control: Shaping defect normality’s, guilt unpaid.
You, it was done all too easily, that now must be said…
Let me now with sympathy mention something Obvious:
Refuse waste solace on what is hopeless.
Initiate immediately to work for The Choice and now;
KNOW WHAT YOU ARE.
NEW TIME IS HERE.
The most obvious for the wolf will stun the sheep.
Watching a killed winter sprout frozen in crap
thus recognizing the directly born down to be grave embraced
The poor young woods, now be they thick or thinly grown,
in a dingbat condition turning to their defiance
wherein withering itself takes all time; their crown…
so enigmatically agreeing with hardest experiences,
grown upon a boulder with the roots visible all around
of false conclusions; doubt, aversion, sorrow, weakness and miseries,
therein words mostly can offer up some old half measures for pity,
barely just enough to flatter with;
weak in Reality
These fully daydreamed danced on a night old ice ―
grossly favoured products so freed from virtue,
hold freedom in hope
for pitiful saving after evil deeds,
for youth’s dumbness wastes youths fire away
Real friends! Wounds come to be before suffering
and is rarely covered by the fact that done is done
where it is fought after to eat the thistles
and being most qualming thrall-food rolled in dirt;
there death will never come too soon
(En omärklig skymt under lövvalvet: Gryningsimman rinner på stenarna.)
Skrider undanskymd genom (hithörande nategräs)
Kliver över en regnbäck (innanför ett mjukt dimregn)
Läser i regndroppar på nyponblom; (min egendom)
Är klar. Klarare än källvattens megin
Är klar över det döda med detta liv.
Klar. Hårdare än sorgens första tårar
Klar. Renare än äktad glädjes näring
Have seen through life and little is left me unseen.
The Now, is since long seen, already hatched,
to its very last drop a home-birded and tired.
there presage moved gifted unexpected possibilities
in the false promises that are ripped apart inside by the miraged
while just running away from the latest cancelled occurrences…
awoke to something unreachable and desirable in me,
as it would be a life without any words, rich with other than trash.
At long last given here entry to an Enlightened New Time;
an age where the new pen cease being so meaningless and mightless.
Wished deeds step onwards. None gets away.
Hear a last warning filled with severity.
All is altered.
Vaktar timmarnas skiften; deras byten: Mitt byte.
Dimtäckt ― UPPVÄCKT!, stiger ― lyfter sig Gryningen
snarvaket öppnad i de genomlysta skogsrummen
och hela natten saknas ― för en stund, ― igen.
(Oro biter ― en tyngd dröjer sig kvar.)
Vandrar upp Stigarnas åldrade, inbrända, årssteg,
står uppå blommande åkeröar,
lämnande mina falnande fotspår
och infångar slitna tankar ― när sagt i hjärtat klarnar, ― kvarstår:
Livets hjärta, våra hjärtan; är födda mognade.
Så återvänd, kom ni vilka lyssnat, känn kvalen renhjärtade;
på hat och glädjes villkor här tillåtet att ömt sammanfogas
med sorglösa ― kanske sorgstinna, upplysta Solens färdvägar
Är överbevisad ― när dina kårar kryper kalla, ― om du vaknar.