FYRA SONETTER 7Så är man en Författare. Men vem?
Knappt någonstans står namnet ens att finna.
Dock finns ett medel att sin ära vinna
och kritikerna; övertyga dem.
Man meddelar på sidan nittifem:
jag har minsann en judisk älskarinna!
– som strax får ut ur handlingen försvinna
– för den poängen gick nog genast hem.
För sexualiteten är ju ävlan.
Man skildrar även sina sprut med fröjd
som särskilt föremål för manlig tävlan.
Så gör man läsekretsen mäkta nöjd.
Och går man bara långt nog med sin skrävlan
så når man rentav till nobelprishöjd!
Vem är jag, tror ni? Kanske någon sett
mig lugn och dröjande vid trädgårdsgränsen
- och därvid tänt ett enda ljus med ens, en
signal vid pass i natten klockan ett.
Augusti. Villastäder. Husen ligger tätt
intill varandra ännu. Konsekvensen
av nästa andetag är känd: så känns en
sekund av främlingskap, och det känns rätt.
I denna värld skall ingen höra hemma
för här är allt ni kallar verkligt fel,
för sent, befängt, på tok, problem, dilemma.
Ni tror ni lever här. För
DEEP DEMONS 3My pet demons Bob and Maja leisurely talking to each other.
- You know what, Maja, I just thought about something.
- What, dear? Maja said, yawning.
- Since the proposition "there is a God" cannot possibly be falsified, he must necessarily exist. Pretty scary, huh?
- Not really. Just turn it upside down and you get the contradiction.
- Not the contradiction, Maja. The disjunction, which necessarily holds true.
- Which part of?
- Who can tell? Your free choice, that cannot possibly be falsified.
- So belief confirms itself.
- You gottit, acid!
- But then people create God and not the other way around?
- Thaaaats it, vinegar! Bob exclaimed triumphantly.
- Then what about US, Bob, Maja said. (I could hear a somewhat naughty giggle.)
- Wo wo, Maja, don't confuse things now, 'k? Let's do it.
- Do what?
- Go out and tell all people, Maja!
- Well, quite a few of them are hearing VOICES aren't they?
It was quiet for a few second. Then Maja spoke again.
- Yeah, yeah, I think it could
WHILE YOUR DOG IS ASSAULTEDWhen your dog is under assault –
Gradually the house of yore becomes visible in the eyepiece, we see the doorway slowly opening up by itself, and once again we can hear the faint voice of the broadcast from the trauma's epicentre –
"Suspicion roves about the room. Suddenly the banisters' end becomes a paw. Good God! Don't attract the porter's attention. Calm your breath. Go on scrutinizing the interior, just like nothing happened. The reponsibility assessment is not altogether crystal clear..."
And the animal remains absent. The town recedes into a state of afterday / alterway, timidity... We hear someone faintly coughing in the outskirts of the area stricken by catastrophe.
There's a spaceship leaving now for the suburbs.
And this is our theatre: the interior incomprehensible void of a huge tank where no echo can be heard. The not yet perfectly square mirror at the opposite end of it still keeps turning; we are watching, watching a star.
OBOEAn O is suspended in the dusk behind the eyelids. There is room for an entire city district. It is not like a mirror, nor like a kind of lens, the city does really exist. There is space enough for it. There we see the houses, where people live together, sleep, make love, there we see the children playing. Those tiny green parentheses - what can they be? Probably thicket and shrubbery. And all that white? Can it be winter now? Maybe it's just open ground.
A smaller o is connected to the big one. It contains nothing. The silent, empty corridor between them is dimly lit up like by a row of large diffuse windows towards a distant sunset. From some site somewhere just round about here the constant activity of soundless elevator machinery deprives the transitory awareness about it's existence of all it's gravitation.
Then follows quiet organ music.
ORPHAN OF UNRESIDENCEThere was a fragrant quality of thaw somewhat across the window-envelope in her opinion, and she pulled off her glassware instantly. I felt my body detonating in its uptight opposition. It was an early day with great speed exercise. Where did we come home, sister? To nothing; and it was high noon unmannerly to contact the carpelan in charge.
17th SONNET FOR KATIEA journey through the minutes of the night
that no one understands; that's life. Absurdly
blessed be your sleep as well, Katie, all right?
It's all but moonshine finally and thirdly.
So do unite your shadow then with mine,
I'm sleepless just like you, my name evading
all kind of human script as we recline
like distant city lighting faint and fading.
As life is gradually turned a whirl
of ignorance and pleasure be upgraded
to dream this very life. You're not my girl,
will never be, and there's no love that faded.
Reality is not for you and me,
nor sleep, nor love, nor really real are we.