Four o’clock

Four o’clock in the morning and I woke up suddenly
scared from that inside sound.
Checked for you on my side
and you weren’t there,
c’est la vie, little voice screamed in my brain
and then again, que sera sera.

It’s not what I want anymore, baby;
it’s what life takes, what time gives
and then lets you dry.
All along with the bottle,
no ice, straight in the glass,
all the way down the throat.

Five o’clock and I know, baby,
You’re never coming back,
confirmed your replacement,
laying there full presence,
again on my side,
no ice, straight from the bottle.

The girl that smoked

Intentions unspecified, he glanced somehow
with approvingly familiarity over the alley,
entered and began a silent study of the faces on the street.

Moving past a tall guy with a dirty beard
and a wrinkled face with strong spirit smell, he grinned.
It was like looking at his own reflection.

Then he stared in silent amusement at the round figure
in dark green coat and striped man’s trousers, no shoes,
a flabby woman of medium height,

Short dirty hair, thick eyebrows,
a slim scar from mouth to chin on a face
that otherwise was undistinguished as a peeled potato.

He smirked and pushed further
to stop at a door that opened to spit a girl
attired in a black long dress holding a thick rolled mooster.

The girl stood her back on the wall,
studied the glowing tip of her smoke
to let the smell of weed to take over the alley.

“Last time we had the pleasure,” she said,
“was long time ago. I still remember you.”
He glanced at his wrist watch and said, “I was drunk.”

She shrugged, then she stood away from the wall
moved to the door, entered and closed behind her
leaving the memory of her smell in the alley.

Having reached no conclusion of the conversation
he moved further to find another door,
perhaps the liquor store,

the footfalls, the mysterious prowlers
of his addictions that can give him
another turn with the girl that smoked.

In the silence of the stars

The air is silent tonight, no more secrets;
everything is out in the blue.
The stars are unvoiced, no more whine;
nothing in the dark.

It was a night like this she said she loved him,
and it was that once, but
among all the lies didn’t sound true;
like dirt after the rain.

Jan never answered back, there was naught to say,
he had learn very young
that love is for kids and the rich
And he was the filth of the poor.

Not that it did matter,
after all the stars didn’t care
and the air was silent
like everything should have been.

Perceptions irrelevant

The potentials were bright, good family,
devoted Christians and all that.
The mother down to earth
the father had working.

Then terminality came,
no permits discussed,
perceptions irrelevant,
devices almost sensible,
no clear anticipations.

Expectations superseded,
required to reminisce the last kiss.
Lust numb in acquisition for survival,
the good family,
the devoted Christians
became a fade remembrance had to remake,
surfacing only in dark flashes of desperation.

The clocks are clicking,
A reminder of the last trail to fondle dust.

Felt swiftly old

Sat on a red light,
watching my life going by;
so I made a stop in a small pub,
the only life glow in a dark alley,
“bourbon, no water, no ice”,
I asked, for the girl to reply,
“in the end we all die.”
I felt swiftly old.

I shouldn’t drink but
I cannot stop the thirst,
“fill it again honey”, I said,
“bourbon, no water, no ice”.
“Any favourites?” she asks,
“the one that slays faster,” I said.
I am old.

A coffee and a cinnamon bun

The girl in the cafe said,
this is the last one sir,
no more for today
perhaps another day.

Jon thought I will take
my business elsewhere
but perhaps not today.
I need a coffee now and a bun,
preferably the cinnamon one.
And I have enough for just that one,
Jon said pointing at the window.

Aggravated she looked,
you didn’t hear me sir,
no more for today
perhaps another day.

Jon looked at the bun and asked,
is it really cinnamon or something else?
Can I have a little taste, a smell?
She looked at him disgusted and said something unclear
Jos didn’t hear while turning in the cold.
It was just a dream,
like most of his nightmares.

A homeless dream by the sea,
no waitress here to serve
no cinnamon bun for the unwanted.
Malmö can be really dark when you really need a coffee.
No more for today he heard.
Jos needs to drink out of his veins’ standard
and with any luck, Jos thought,
there will never be another day.

Not drunk

‘Close the door,’ she said and
moved further in the dark.
‘I don’t like the light,
I hate the bright.’ She said
and she started crying.

He said nothing,
entered the room and
kept away from the stench.
Cheap vodka and sweat,
an insinuation of urine
in the back.

‘Not drunk,’ she fabled ghostly,
her eyes barely moving.
‘Just me,’
Just, I echoed her tone
desperately.
A chorus of fear.

Rackets dancing in
a horrendous plant of
boneless souls.
The tears silent ballet
a dramatic choreography.
A waltz of dread.

‘Not drunk,’ she whispered again,
‘not drunk.’
And the smell of
cheap vodka and sweat
drawn him into limitless misery.
The chain of lies.
Again!

Populous Daylights IV

Aimlessly and brainless aiming to convey
successful dynamics into a differential ways,
conversations about potatoes and tomatoes
not to mention broccoli.

Populous Daylights IV, collection Populous (No8)
600x420mm – Mixed med

Jon & Danny

Unprescribed every day conditions
in addition to the dying wealthfare of the streets
and the fading shame of the mercy train,
left Jon in a slump of a stateless terrain.

Don’t worry, father state is here for you,
Danny had said but Danny was deaf
and things come out of his mouth
without the importance of listening.

So when Jon found motionless, Danny said,
I told him, father state is here for you
father state will take care of you.
Jon didn’t hear. He was frivolous with his hearing.

Later that night Danny looked for the doors
Jon has been sleeping lately, he didn’t hear anything,
Danny was deaf and the mercy train passed through his heart
leaving him in the rails of the homeless life and Jon’s absence.

Lily’s bulb

Lily’s pot on the second floor,
wide window heavy yellow smoke curtains.
Years of weedy trips turned the place
into operatic phantom’s Parisian sewer,
all liquid images.

Lily never been to Paris,
liliums and lilies never travel the world
in cars and planes
but in weed spirit, thick boiling drops
in broken veins.

Lily was old, too young for the world
too aged for her life.
She was long left waterless
in a lagoon of weed,
poor substitute to her usual drops and love.

Lily, in bulb she born in bulb she went,
just like all the liliums of this world,
insignificantly lovelessly alone,
staring their torturous past
from a pot on the second floor.