Years later when I stumble into a café in Finland,I halt by the coffee station and grab a fistful ofmy mother’s sleeve, Listen to the song! I shout.What? – she jumps – Is going on? And I cannotexplain why my head is turned to the ceiling fan –eyes wide open, letting the showers of an […]
The roads are closing again for the night and my aunt sighs into her tea. Another snowstorm is coming. The boats are tied down to the quay in a spiderweb of ropes. I’m restless to get out and feel as though it somehow relates to me. A bit of imagination is welcomed. My friend calls
Nothing Bad Happens Read More »
When you call your mother, what should we do? you’re not looking for the meaning itselfbut for what there’s left without it. You’ve finished Camus and the chamomile tea –you feel a revolution or a metaphorical suicide. When you go for a walk, there’s wind to notice –which you do. A book is torn to
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A small boy on a gigantic blue bicycle rush past us. I spot him from the woods, where my two younger cousins and I have been sent to fill buckets with cloudberries – summers have become laboursome, after we became adults. The boy’s legs are stretched, and his toes strain to push the weight of
we speed along through valleys and steep hillsthe driver determinedto put us back where we belong butI did not agree to be shoved alonghis path of Carpe Diemhis time schedule speeds tires tiredspeeds rubber and asphalthe drives on while I’m at the station negotiatingprices of one life-time guaranteed friendshipover another and I cannot resist the
Time Is a Taxi Driver Read More »
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
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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
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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.
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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