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Hvordan blir døden?

22/2/2025

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Hvordan blir døden?

Døden blir ikke å ligge og våke med søvnløse tanker om død.
Døden blir ikke som spanske maracas i klaprende stram åndenød
Døden blir ikke som dødningekarneval, beinrangler i silkeflor.
Døden blir ikke som leiegårds-høybygg, som rives med sprengstoff og jevnes med jord.

Døden blir ikke som strengen som slakkes når bøddelen spiller.
Døden blir ikke slik hunden fra Baskerville uler i iskalde kvelder.
Døden blir ikke som Britisk museum, med myrlik og knokler og ben.
Døden blir ikke som gravkammertrolldom – når plyndrere gjøres til sten.

Døden blir ikke en tivolibane som styrter fra skryt til et skrik
Døden blir ikke som drømmekonserter der flyglene spilles av velkledte lik.
Døden blir ikke som høstgule hager der diktere dikter i fred.
Døden blir ikke som steinminnesmerker der minnene taust visner ned.

Døden blir ikke Den lette brigade sitt angrep fra Tennysons sang.
Døden blir ikke som traktatpapiret med Reagan og Gorbatsjovs navn.
Døden blir ikke som sykehussenger med blomster og kort og sarkom.
Døden blir ikke som avgangseksamen der rektor er Gud og du får ditt diplom.

Døden blir ikke som ekteskapspakten til døden vil skille oss ad.
Døden blir ikke som kurvplanteblomsten som plukkes ren, blad etter blad
Døden blir ikke som TV-programmer som viser oss årstiders spill.
Døden blir ikke som Østens nirvana som insekter søker i ild.

Døden blir ikke som glitrende byer som bygges i hvit kokain.
Døden blir ikke som bilvindusruten med innsyn til likkisten dekket av lin.
Døden blir ikke et rom fult av fluer som klumper seg sammen i sorgen.
Døden blir ikke som bryllupsfesttalen, skipet som driver med strømmen mot morgen.

Døden blir ikke som kirketårnklokken i byen som pesten la øde.
Døden blir ikke som da Ivan Ijitsj av Tolstoy fikk innsikt til sist før han døde.
Døden blir ikke som hav under brygga, et grågrønt og frådende skumgap.
Døden blir ikke en eventyrverden av løve, en heks og et klesskap.

Døden blir ikke som elskeres morder, et virus på fire bokstaver.
Døden blir ikke som frihetsfantaster som kaldt lokker massene i skyttergraver.
Døden blir ikke som bibeltro prester hvis vennlige smil rekker fram til svært få.
Døden blir ulik en svart-hvit novellefilm fra en novelle av Poe.

Døden blir ikke en bulk av en mus inni en boa konstriktor.
Døden blir ikke slik eldgamle guder i tolv dager passet på liket av Hektor.
Døden blir ikke som voldelig porno - Marquis de Sades favoritt.
Døden blir ikke det pirrende plagget som stripperen drar fra sitt glinsende skritt.

Døden blir ikke et tvangssalg, som når futen forsegler din dør
Døden blir ikke som sent i september, når svalen og grågåsa flykter mot sør
Døden blir ikke en skrå hodeskalle forkledt i portrettet av Holbein.
Døden blir ikke som det man må tie om, så underlig hevdet av Wittgenstein.

Døden blir ikke som feriebilder i album som glemmes igjen.
Døden blir ikke den kalde, men velkledte bankmann som myrder på fritiden.
Døden blir ikke slik urskiveviserne stiller seg sammen ved midnatt.
Døden blir ikke som kroppsdeler stilt ut i baren på legestudentenes festnatt.

Døden blir ikke som kaprerens stemme som spraker staccato i tårnet
Døden blir ikke som havet som fråder mens Liv Ullmann synker i bårene.
Døden blir ikke som katedralen som pilgrimer ser i sin bønn
Døden blir ikke et vanhellig land, barnekorsfarernes lønn

Døden blir ikke en helvetes pine, som Sartre forteller består av de andre
Døden blir ikke å våkne som insekt, slik Kafka lot Gregor Samsa forandre
Døden blir ikke en romodyssé, et merkelig rom helt på slutten av ferden
Døden blir ikke en knyttnevekamp som deler ut straff i forbryternes verden

Døden blir ikke som skyggenes hus, som Kerberos vokter For Hades, sin herre
Døden blir ikke en brann i Tsjernobyl, der alt som går galt, uten nåde går verre
Døden blir ikke en falsk karriere, fra strøjobb til strøjobb – en endeløs vrimmel
Døden blir ikke usynlige tegn som den synske kan se i en meningsløs himmel

I en meningsløs himmel

Hvordan blir døden?
Døden blir ikke

​Døden blir

What will death be like?

Death will be unlike the night-times when we lie awake thinking of death
Death will be unlike the Spanish maracas that rattle inside your last breath
Death will be unlike the Mexican festivals, skeletons wearing top hats
Death will be unlike the brownstone apartments that dynamite or dereliction collapse

Death will be unlike the mandolin that the hangman relaxes by playing
Death will be unlike the hound of the Baskervilles, chilling the world with its baying
Death will be unlike the British museum, its bodies from peat bogs & bones
Death will be unlike the curse of the mummy that turns the explorers to stone

Death will be unlike a great roller coaster, a plunge from a boast to a scream
Death will be unlike mahogany coffins great pianists play in their wildest strangest dreams
Death will be unlike a garden in autumn where poets can sit & compose
Death will be unlike the granite memorials where memories wither in rows

Death will be unlike the charge of the Light Brigade Alfred Lord Tennyson rhymed
Death will be unlike the thin piece of paper that Reagan & Gorbachov sign
Death will be unlike the hospital bedside with Novocain needles & cards
Death will be unlike the great Day of judgement when God the headmaster presents the awards

Death will be unlike the marriage that vicars till death us do part
Death will be unlike the dreams of the young man who sang "Love will tear us apart"
Death will be unlike TV documentaries showing us life from outside
Death will be unlike the Buddhist nirvana the moth seems to seek in the light

Death will be unlike the cities of crystal they build in a few grains of smack
Death will be unlike the long picture window the coffin looks through to a widow in black
Death will be unlike a room full of spiders all clinging together & crying
Death will be unlike the wedding guest's story, the ship drifting lost & the dead sailor sighing

Death will be unlike the din in the steeple when cholera poisons the village
Death will be unlike the illumination that Tolstoy provided for poor Ivan Illych
Death will be unlike the wriggling sea children glimpse through the chinks in the boardwalk
Death will be unlike the magical land of "The Lion, The Witch & The Wardrobe"

Death will be unlike the treacherous virus that murders the lovers with AIDS
Death will be unlike the phantoms of freedom that lead the crowd over the barricades
Death will be unlike the night thoughts of "Late Call" when ministers stop being cosy
Death will be unlike "The Pit and the Pendulum" co-starring Bela Lugosi

Death will be unlike the bulge of the mouse inside the boa constrictor
Death will be unlike that drunkard the phoenix, so tight on the moonshine of golden elixirs
Death will be unlike that violent pornography dear to the Marquis de Sade
Death will be unlike the last stitch of clothing the stripper discards as her nipples grow hard

Death will be unlike the bankrupt handing over the keys to his house
Death will be unlike the last day of summer, when insects grow stupid & swallows fly south
Death will be unlike the skull of a merchant that slants through the portrait by Holbein
Death will be unlike that strange proposition on silence, the Tractatus of Wittgenstein

Death will be unlike your holiday snaps when the camera lets in the light
Death will be unlike the honest but cold blooded bank clerk whose hobby is homicide
Death will be unlike the hands of the clock coming together at midnight
Death will be unlike the grim amputations of medical students larking on rag night

Death will be unlike the hijacker's voice in the heads of air traffic controllers
Death will be unlike the sea as it thunders on Liv Ullman vanishing under the rollers
Death will be unlike the abbey the pilgrims all saw when they prayed
Death will be unlike the unholy land at the end of the Children's Crusade

Death will be unlike the hell in "Huis Clos" Mr Sartre informs is just other people
Death will be unlike the travelling salesman who woke up one morning transformed to a beetle
Death will be unlike 2001, the room at the end of the ride
Death will be unlike the wrath that Charles Bronson let loose on the Lower East Side

Death will be unlike the house of the shades the dog Cerberus guarded for Hades his master
& death will be unlike that lesson on Infallibility, the Chernobyl disaster
& death will be unlike the empty career of the temp's vacillations gone permanent
Death will be unlike the unlikely omens the clairvoyant reads in the meaningless firmament

In the meaningless firmament

What will death be like?
What will death be like?

Death will be like

Momus


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My friends are all dead

20/2/2025

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My friends are all dead
And they just won't shut up about it

The steamed milk is red
And I can't get a cup without it

My blood will not clot
and a cut through my skin will kill me

My knees are both shot
and no dance on my lap will thrill me
​My songs are all sung
And I'll climb to the roof and shout that

And everyone's young
And there's not much to do about that

I'm awake in my bed
and you can't write a letter for it

my friends are all dead
and I guess they're the better for it
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Visibly mended

28/12/2023

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when my skein has run out
and my work and my time here is ended
I should like to depart
with the knowledge I'm visibly mended

ref:
my heart will be darned
with a radiant yarn
my soul will be patched
and the colours won't match
and my mind will be visibly mended


I will leave my old house
in a chaos of unrivalled measure
amid tasteful antiques
there are knicknacks and trinkets and treasure

there's a battered old box
stashed away for the kids to discover
they will marvel and cringe
over letters I wrote to my lover

ref:
my heart will be darned
with a radiant yarn
my soul will be patched
and the colours won't match
and my mind will be visibly mended


my workshop and lab
filled with projects I barely got started
flights of fancy, designs
and gadgets not for the faint-hearted

the cat will be fine
I have left him a well-supplied larder
he'll have comfortable days
I worry that yours will be harder

ref:
my heart will be darned
with a radiant yarn
my soul will be patched
and the colours won't match
and my mind will be visibly mended


far back on the shelf
with the bottles, I've left you a letter
behind the old scotch
- not that one - the Speyside's much better

when my purpose was lost
you alone knew just how to unearth it
right here at the end 
you knew me, you know it was worth it

ref:
my heart will be darned
with a radiant yarn
my soul will be patched
and the colours won't match
and my mind will be visibly mended

From the song cycle "Next yesterday" with music by Antti Nissilä

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There is no going home

28/12/2023

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there is no going home
you are your home
it left with you
the turtle, snail and hermit crab
already know what you will find
there is no going home

for nothing stays the same
you left your home
behind that door
it altered sure as sun will set
it grew and changed unrecognised
for nothing stays the same
your friends are not the same
the ones who stayed
are older now
the rest are gone - they have moved on
all scattered by the restless winds
your friends are not the same

there's only moving on
you're driving down
a one-way street
the rear-view mirror giving up
your homeward journey far away
there's only moving on

there is no going home

From the song cycle "Next yesterday" with music by Antti Nissilä

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Fall child

28/12/2023

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I was born on the day of the dead
on a bed laid with coal
not a saint nor a soul
can remember the words that were said

ref:
all things pass
faint reflections in broken glass
tolling bells
wreaths forgotten and last farewells


I have walked among men all my life
although distant, apart
with a smoldering heart
I have witnessed their romance and strife

ref:
all things pass
faint reflections in broken glass
tolling bells
wreaths forgotten and last farewells

I stood still in the slipstreams of life
never young, never old
never hot, never cold
I was calm when the passions ran rife

ref:
all things pass
faint reflections in broken glass
tolling bells
wreaths forgotten and last farewells


all my friends and familiars are gone
as the mountains wear down
as the comets come round
I will welcome the day I am done

ref:
all things pass
faint reflections in broken glass
tolling bells
wreaths forgotten and last farewells

From the song cycle "Next yesterday" with music by Antti Nissilä

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Frozen

28/12/2023

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I like dead leaves
and frozen ponds
and halloween
and most things in between

I like cold air
and waning light
and misty breath
and lanterns greeting death

ref:
The wheel is turning
yuletide's coming
darktime lingers
fingers numbing
frozen fingers
lanterns burning
winter's in the air 
each breath a frozen prayer

I like loud steps
and frosted trees
and falling snow
not melting on my brow

​I like birds gone
and grasses slain
and life on hold
all dormant in the cold

​
ref:
The wheel is turning
yuletide's coming
darktime lingers
fingers numbing
frozen fingers
lanterns burning
winter's in the air 
each breath a frozen prayer
​
I like the sun down
the dark outside
the light inside
and heavens open wide

I like dark glass
and icy walls
and northern lights
and never-ending nights

ref:
The wheel is turning
yuletide's coming
darktime lingers
fingers numbing
frozen fingers
lanterns burning
winter's in the air 
each breath a frozen prayer

From the song cycle "Next yesterday" with music by Antti Nissilä

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Mirror Shouting Decades

28/12/2023

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​the mirror's shouting decades at me
the bedroom is on strike
the attic's filled with goblins
while the windows take a hike

the mirror's shouting decades at me
and everything's a mess
there's fighting in the closet
I am bludgeoned by a dress

ref:
there are heartaches in my pockets
and cobwebs in my beard
my glasses have all melted
and the bookshelf's acting weird


​the mirror's shouting decades at me
the kitchen is on fire
the parlour hosts a riot
and the mailbox is a liar

the mirror's shouting decades at me
the doorbell is in doubt
there's an uprising of boxes
in the basement, breaking out

ref:
there are heartaches in my pockets
and cobwebs in my beard
my glasses have all melted
and the bookshelf's acting weird


the mirror's shouting decades at me
foulest in the land
but I'm comforted by lampshades
and defiant I still stand
yes defiant I still stand

From the song cycle "Next yesterday" with music by Antti Nissilä

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I am home

28/12/2023

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​I’ve lived by the ocean
Connected 
to every coastline there is
The sea spray
The gulls
the scent of engine oil
Carrying promises 
Undeciphered

But it wasn’t home


I’ve lived in the mountains
My mind touching the skies
The air clear as pure thought
Cool as naked solitude
The land it’s own map
Laid bare
Free of trees

But it wasn’t home




I’ve lived in the big city
New faces every day
Walks still undiscovered
Never running out
Of anything 
But time

But it wasn’t home


I live in a small town
I know every street
Most faces
My name is known
By most

But it’s not home


I’ve read a thousand lives
Out of this world
And the next 
I turn the page

And I am home
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Not that old

28/12/2023

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I am clearly not young
At best I'm not old
Or at least not that old
I've made
Good choices and bad ones
But all told
I fear I was not that bold

I’ve been broken and healed
Torn apart, 
gathered together
visibly mended
an autumn graft
It’s winter now
But I am not that cold
Few things worked out
But some did
And how!
The prize eludes me
But it was always false
I am not that sad

I twisted and turned
forgot what I planned
got side-tracked
and ambushed
but fairly content
It was not that bad
0 Comments

Ours is a house

28/12/2023

0 Comments

 
​ours is a house of books
bound in leather and cardboard and cloth
stacked on windowsills, bookshelves and stairs
treatises, comics and tomes
atlases, leaflets and box sets
books with stories and fables and myth
books on thinking and science and truth
cookery, poems and art
and books on the binding of books

ours is a house of rooks
and castles and knights and pawns
monopoly money and scrabbled words
trivia quizzes, cluedo and chess
played with varying skill 
and faltering will
joyful and playful and cruel
no prisoners taken
no mercy shown
stomping off and air punched
and alwyas another round

ours is a house of looks
fiery, furtive and flirty
looks that might kill
and looks that invite
looks to keep still
and looks to ignite
looks like a tough one
looks like it's late
and it looks like it's going to rain

ours is a house of nooks
and crannies and niches and alcoves
wardrobes to hide in
and beds to crawl under
as the count is aprroaching one hundred
our long lost uncle 
whent hide and seek 
nearly a decade ago
his winning streak lasts to this day

ours is a house of cooks
happily spoiling the broth
instant noddles and elaborate soups
TV dinners and slow-roast meat
family gatherings
dinner dates
occasional vegans and special occasions
christmases new years and birthdays
and always room for one more
helping or unannounced guest
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