I wrote in Swedish 1989-1995, then stopped poetry to focus on other pursuits...


But a few relapses have been recorded. The most recent one occurred in 2016.











the rush the rush the rush
the fuse that's burning down

information glitters
rain of idea sparks
the thing is sprinting
sipping, taking off
to the waiting black powder

now everything is happening
faster than you can think
at the speed of genius
at the speed of a thousand geniuses competing
at the speed of a civilization-powered light beam

this special time, maybe to be revisited later
but not really experienced as it unfolds
we can see what should be done
the vase falling slo-mo to the ground
but we cannot help it
the signals take too long from brain to muscle
we are like statues
saucer-eyed witnesses
to explosive fate
and so it is done
now it is out of our hands
cast into the realm of higher forces
where what will happen will happen

what started as clueless curiosity
feverything done without purpose
sheltered from moral responsibility
by blindness and childishness

our stupidity a little fig leaf
that hides the ranging erection
or makes it possible to pretend we cannot see











mercy for all that hurts
mercy for the puzzled stare
mercy for the faceless victim
the forgotten
the irrelevant
the ill at ease
the silent pain inside
is it still yesterday
the cry hangs in the air
the echo won't die down

crank up the volume, let the booze flow
distribute the zip bags with the synthesis
cosmic ravers
how hard we must laugh
how loudly celebrate
how ravenously kiss
to mute the sigh of a woodlouse














the young ones glimmer briefly
like fourth of july firework
then fall to dust

in the nursing home sits an old rocker
all that remains are his fading tattoos
smells like centenarian spirit, how low

well listen up youth, here comes philosophy
like a hand outstretched from the back of a limousine
scattering Benjamins for y’all:

strut on you arrogant pricks
shine on you daughters of ivy
occupy your privilege like a desert garden

fig-nude amongst almonds and apricots
let us feast our eyes on your impudence
as you slurp that rough-shelled coconut with a pastel straw














Took the path of least resistance
Ended up in this hole
Snug and comfy in my circumscribed existence

Sometimes, awake in bed,
I look up at the moon-disc and wonder
What winds are sweeping the heath now, what outlaw riders

But less and less frequently







See the plucked chicken
Its throat ineptly slit
Over the abattoir drain
Bleeding its life away

See the man running
Running for his life
Chased by a rabid dog
The pit-bull called Eternity

See the fountain gushing
From fifty fishes’ mouths
Various parabolas
Same filthy water








The astral glockenspiel quivers
As our bodies align in the orbit of Venus;
Galloping stallions and mares
Print with their hooves, pixel by pixel,
The lights and shadows of mortal life,
Pink flesh for the gods’ inspection ‒
Who clap their hands together at the sight;
For the heavens love the authentic peep.
Whence the orbs appear to us sublunars
Empty, mute, and dimly lit;
While on the other side the jamboree,
Abuzz with primal harmony,
Fluoresces with the ecstasy of being.












On the bank at the end
Of what was there before us
Gazing over to the other side
On what we can become
Veiled in the mist of naïve speculation
We are busy here preparing
Rafts to carry us across
Before the light goes out leaving us
In the eternal night of could-have-been





(There is also the earlier work Synkrotron, in Swedish.)