pre beatle fame

Pre Beatles Fame

 There are times when long time ago really is long, yet seen

with a cosmic sight, a speck of dust in the eye of the sky.  

I think it was In 1956 I saw the Beatles perform at a place

called the cave in Liverpool. I was about seventeen worked

as a mess boy on a ship, cleaning pots and pans in the galley.

 Back then the wages were low, yet we didn´t feel poor and

we had money for a pint of beer and a packet of woodbine,

potato crisp with a packed of salt inside...big deal.  

 Oh, shallow youth I found their music noisy and intrusive

I was trying to chat up a girl at the time, she was swaying

to the tune said the lyric was fantastic and I quickly agreed

became a fan overnight, yet never conquered her heart.

back on board - pubs closed early- I sat smoking cigarettes

listening to Hank William’s western music on the radio.

the day the world ends

The Day The World Ends.

Sky and earth were lovers their children; sea, rain, sun and thunder; but they

had no space, stuck in the middle of the lovers, so they prised them apart and

thus were free. The Parents cannot meet again and look on as their children

rake havoc on sky and land. They know the day will come when there will be

silence and just enough time for  a last embrace before the world turns into

a snowball that flies beyond the galaxy where the unknown is a shivering tree

that has yet to exist, since there is no consciousness. But is it right to say only

insight is suitable as prove of life? Dipterous exist well without it and the filthy

 cockroach  has its brain in its stomach. Life created has a purpose, a function

we don´t see, practical suited to natures self are regulating cleaning purpose.

The shivering tree does not know it does not exist, if the world ceased to be,

 and when the world reappeared after a long recreation it has no recollection

of a past, and there is no room for philosophical speculation of the rhythmic

wonder of life. 

first thought

First Thought

The rich, famous, notorious, and singers get their lyrical poem written

by harp playing bards who as thanks get to eat and sit on the left side

of the most illustrious person and whisper flattery into ears that cannot

hear, but one voice.  The muse has been corrupted by poets, who flew

too near the power, I feel like writing a poem to Saddam Hussein,

he used to, when young, sell cigarette in Al Basrah, kept Iraq intact till

 warrior democrats arrived and turned the country into a failed state,

but I will desist; after all I have stopped smoking.

The tendencies to believe what our leaders say has yet again destroyed

a country and a voice in my head tells me how insignificant poetry is,

 when it tells the truths about us, it doesn´t matter anymore, because no

one no listens. The poor are dead or frail and religion is an instrument of

torture as the world nears its total destruction, and all words written on

paper of trees slaughtered trees´ last breath will, be ash in the wind.

the day of our valentines

The Day of our Valentines

Valentine´s day is when horrors begin at dawn on

the island/town of Hashima abandoned now,

not a soul, only a black and white TV is on silently

re running life as it was lived here before humanity

suddenly left. On a grey wall a faded drawing of

a heart with an arrow through it ,and words written

underneath: Happy Valentine´s Day.

We know now, should humanity be eradicated by

a dervish wind of pestilence, what will be left is

decaying buildings, rotting books,   and the eerie

silence of what we were not able to say.

(a small Island in the bay of Nagasaki)

lepidopterist

Lepidopterist

He was a collector of natural beauty, a lepidopterist, a title he was rather

proud of made him sound like a doctor. Over the years he had become

an authority of butterflies and moths, and people came to see his immense

collection. When visitors asked how he was able to almost keep dead

butterflies to keep their natural colours, he said it was important to stick

a needle through them as soon as possible, before their normal tone

began to disappear gradually. But he had never been able to keep their

usual blush of his dead butterflies like of those in the wild.

One day he saw a rare butterfly ran after it with his net and just caught it

when he fell down a deep hole that had spikes at the bottom. He bled and

no one heard his call for help. The insect in his net he set free and saw it fly

up to the sunlight, a sight that made him happy like seeing his own soul

seeking the freedom of weightlessness. The spikes had severed an aorta an

when morning came his face had lost its natural outdoor colour. 

Fimbule frost

the grief

The Grief

Big windows are nice, but the sun heats up and

the room gets hot up quickly, we need to shut

the blinds and close for the view of the sea line.

We visited a man who lived alone and he didn´t

want his day changed by us, switched on the TV

as he always did at noon and we sat there seeing

a program about lion cubs in Africa, giraffes and

hordes of gnus and zebras.

TV is a great human voice silencer, the art of talk

Is being overshadowed by the visual to see others

act and carry on a useless conversation so we do

not have to do it. Perhaps the man estimated our

errand, hoped for more time before being told his

wife had not survived when her plane fell down.