A. Evensen

The village girl is her own Muse.She shapeshifts into every painted circumstance.When she needs to know a hand, she studies her own.Canvased old man by a chair needs to stand crooked with a back broken – she curls herself like aluminium foiland examines how the spine sticks out like a dragon.When she needs the right […]

Speak clearly, little man. Those curious eyes, know all I have forgotten.Remind me again, the place you came from. Your grip around my pinkie isdesperate. You are, I know, dyingto tell me about birth. I know, you’d killto see me reborn. I know, you’d birth me yourself if you could.The strength of being lost for

The quality of a human body,the tender flesh of a ripened pear,melts on my tongue andconsumes me,like the punch of a partyor the knockout of lust.It knocks the savage humaninto my core.The catastrophic picture of it all.The quality of a human body,invites me to dine.Figures, ancient, grotesque,a human subject flails off the edgeand onto the

Bliss in the morning hourwhen a nose touches downinto a hand, soothing tremblesfrom aromas of a nightmarethe tinge of something smallinvestigated by the curiousman searching for a homeincense of a sweaty palmfound deodorant debrisor wrinkles on a bedsheetthe air from a windowpanethe static scent of subtle rain.

The Last Waltz The little bird flees a Main Coon’s gaze.He kicks off the ground and rides the gust of a happy wind.Takes off, sweeps along the road then up, up through trees.Branches bent, adorned with leaves picked off one by one.The sky hosts a show of swans, an arrow-formed warning.The little bird settles on

My Father Plays The Morning A mild chill, flows through the spine like a stick holdinga puppet upright. The morning folds into itselfthrough the crack of a window, a symphony of carsrush through rainy roads, a steady hum sloshing –stress in the air. Floorboards squeak softly, footsteps ofa fathers workaholic coffee filling. Back and forthback

I Stopped Singing There are soundsI’ve stopped singing.They ring away,over there, way over there.Chiming bellscackling fires – fumes.Library cards to pointed silencebestowed upon my throat.Good luck is the piano,cold fingers, glissando noteafter note, after note.

Radio Silence When my grandfather passed, I sleptevery night, waiting for the dream. Tick, ticka mantle clock counts the night.He sits in silence, laying out a game of solitaire.He knows I’m waiting for a seat. We have a conversation about his lifeI was happy, I woke up.I was happy.It was death done right.When you passed,

Dustbin Bag A man cracks her upthey hold hands forthe first timeShe tells me about the mountain grassbeneath their feetSometimes we singin the car beforebitter silence hitsA fruitful spacegone fickle from thewords I didn’t speakI, a rag old and usedto cleaning up hermess I stress herBecome ancient nowwaiting in a dustbin bagto be taken out.

Bottled How nice a bottle can become.Unchanged by its environmentwith bubbles fixed preserved.Sticking itself to the one job wemade it for – cheering the people,for you and for me. For hordes of humans, for hundreds of yearsin the sea, for humid days hiddenon a forgotten shelf holding onto the thirst of a heat struck day.