Broken Shores

This poem was published by Open Wide Magazine in 2010

I raise my hands

standing on the sand built wharf.

You grin at me

like a horse chewing froth.

The wind slithers

and spits in my face,

the waves gently lick my feet.

The water, well… it’s cold.

Salt crystallises in old battle wounds.

They give us their meagre explanations,

and tell us why we’re no longer on board.

They’ve always judged

my starved frame,

when they were the ones feeding me rainbow meat.

I knew it was suicide,

changing your name,

with my heart buried at sea,

confined amongst bribery and lies.

And the water, well… it’s cold.

It now swells between my toes

as the sea eats the wharf away.

But I am not sorry

to see it go,

dissolving into grain,

tomorrow it’ll be

just another broken shore.

I sold your name for vanity,

I celebrate the destruction of you.

Blowing fragments of your smile

into the wind.

And that is worth watching the ship sail away.

(Hand)

This is the first poem I've written in Swedish for years. March 2010.

Jag klär av din hand.

Vill se dina fingrar nakna.

Håller dem i mina först

för att låta din hud vakna.

Drar av den där långa vanten

som du skurit topparna av.

Den är randig den där vanten

svart och röd med flammande närvaro.

Din vinterpäls kryper fram,

svarta sträva hår.

Jag låter min hand smeka över dem

bara för att se hur de reagerar.

Jag plockar bort dina ringar

finger efter finger,

lägger dem på bordet

i en rak och viktig rad.

Tar av dig ett armband

eller kanske två,

beroende på

hur många du bär.

Håller din hand naken

upptäcker dess linjer.

Följer dem med ett finger

och låter den sjunka i din handflata.

Ser på din hud, kollar alla nyanser

tittar på håret runt knogarna.

Funderar på

vad du funderar nu.

Följer din hand ända ut till naglarna.

Det svarta lacket är slitet och gammalt

säger mycket och talar högt.

Jag smider formen

smeker konturen

böjer dina fingrar

kniper ditt skinn

håller din tumme

och stjäl dess värme.

Smeker handen ner till handleden.

Känner på dig

hur skelettet sitter ihop.

Kramar din hand

och vilar i handflatan.

Den fräna doften av svett och hud

och hettan bland alla vätskor

sitter och sjuder

emellan våra händer.

Men kramar du mig för hårt

kan det hända

jag går sönder.

Charred

(this poem was originally published in The Word by YSJ in 2009.)

When I reach into my pockets

space expands

to infinity.

It drives me fanatic

and I become a lunatic

stretching my fingers

too deep.

I dig for your nebula,

star corrosion,

symbol

of the melted hand.

Following the nova,

sinking Betlehem.

Because

though I paint you a saviour

it is not the truth.

But I like the lie.

Reaching further,

fingering my soul.

Sliding through the wormhole,

I become fanatic,

a complete lunatic,

overwhelmed like a

fascist close to the crown,

like a dirty bastard,

(with an empty heart)

and it is a madness

that it is fantastic.

Father (First published with the Cadaverine, www.thecadaverine.com, in 2008)

Winter soggy feet,
on a hunt
for a Christmas tree.
Sinking in the snow
a swampland of
peace;
mute but
the landscape sighs,
And I feel good.
He is
leg to hip
re-attached.
And he sinks,
further into the snow
but it isn’t the steel
in his bones,
or his massive guts,
it’s the weight
of his heart.
Snow seeps through my boots,
but not through his.
They’re water-proof.