Jag gick runt i lägenheten och kände mig en smula rastlös. Kom på att jag hade en tvättid och traskade ner till tvättstugan. Av vana trogen stod jag och väntade ut tvätten tills den var klar att hängas upp. En strumpa fattades. En vit tröja hade blivit rosa…eller var den rosa från början – minns inte. Det viktiga vara att få tvätten torr. När sista plagget hängts upptäckte jag en lapp som trillat ur en av byxfickorna. På lappen kunde jag läsa: Det finns inget annat sätt att säga det här på, men jag tycker du tvättade för lite i vår relation; dessutom fick du aldrig tvätten torr. Det enda du dög till vara att spela violin för mig. Violiners strängar bygger ingen kärlek.

 

(2017)

Annonser
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Stilregn

Stilregn över staden.
Språkstenarna i ditt huvud
skingrar sig med publiksticken
bakom din nacke, ryggskottspump
stumpen din röstresonans klavertramp
när du insiktsinsektsfobier tilltagande
ögats vinterbjälke.

 

(2018)

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A train’s crescendo

 

The nightly step
towards a night
that shuts its eyes.

Possibilities described
in a cramped compartment.
The Spring’s shaky caresses
and Nature’s natural and delightful Spring
after an inner struggle that I have vanquishe.

Hear the crescendo that grows stronger
and stronger – becoming a clarity
that I hold onto tightly through the journey.
Hands wring themselves without warning
and knees bear witness to a time long past
that has long toppled my thoughts.
My thoughts are balls and oranges
out-of-control and glaring in all their simplicity
They don’t flinch for a second from the train
Not for something indivisible and solid.

The cello’s strings echo still
and I feel how the bow strikes my temple
The toilet smells just like the man
who’s playing with dirty hands
The compartment’s floor is a concert
where stones dance
and it looks like they’re having fun.
The prop a paper that’s
been brought to the floor by the wind,
lays itself like a veil
over the whole performance
that keeps moving itself
In my head poetry
that rages and appropriates
those thoughts that are important
to my and our existence.

Reality is temporarily out-of-order
but it’s still there like a trailing shadow
walking with stones in the pockets,
the stones left there
to give assurance to hands
My existence, an emptiness
where all the windows and sounds
has vanished without a trace.

The static belt has been tightened.
My body has left the train
and I wonder if I will ever come back.
The train which is a cello in my mind
painted and flourishing on a plate
blue as the sea and brown as your eyes, beloved
The open book in my hand glowers
and I give myself a kick in the guts for poetry
I beg and pray: Without poetry my heart will decamp,
Fracture into tiny bits across cold stone floors.
The passengers’ chess game progresses
with crossed legs
and it smells of arrogance.
I pick up a stone
and cast it so it makes a hole.
The man doesn’t notice, he’s one with the board
The pieces his reality
that he inhabits carefree.
A scent of wine on my lap
and a kiss from you
help me endure this hell
Who’s driving this train?
I ask the man whose shoes smell of fish and caramel
I can’t bear a noiseless curse
Honesty shouldn’t be hushed up
With his mouth full of stones he alights
arrogance’s quisling
who has long terrorised my dreams.

 

 

 

 

 

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Allt är en dimma

som skingrar sig bort

likt ett skymningsfall av trötthet.

Tiderna vandrar av och an i din kropp.

den olustiga känslan badar

i håret av drömmar.

 

(Ingår i diktsamlingen ”Kall horisont” (2016) )

 

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