breaking points

when it comes to the matter of
my own death; I would like
for it to be

I’d like to linger through the
unavoidable rains;
water and stars and stones and bullets,
watch what I have created come to an end,
tip my own gilded scale and
move through the liminal mind of day.

I’d like to be what I am:
in love, full and fractured, whole and wholly distorted;
a very light dark underwater,
crescendo sunset, velvet lined morning glory;
kind hands sharp words old and cold and burning-
paradoxes and paradigms, palindromes and anagrams;
a collection of brand new and used up, empty boxes and full mirrors.

I’d like my own death to wait
in the wings of this my one and only present. I’d like to
live for all times; a story written in blood and eyes and dust-
like in
all the places upon your body
where my mouth breathed this
one word: remember.


(  for Pan )

There’s a great god walking these lands
He maps routes
in human flesh and feathers he
drew a map out of this my one and only skin he
made roads in dead country where water flows and
flowers (now)
grow. I have always
known him, somehow
his breath like a shift in the fabric of the world,
the silhouette in opposite suns
a windowless desert the voices of
every ghost town and all dead lovers in their immense and
stories. But
he carries no mediocre heart through time.

I was tired when I
met him.
And I was lonely
but was always lonely
I defy
emptiness with
life with my lack of dignity with
hot blood and in rapid irregular pulse. Yes,
I was
always lonely and in my way: free yes freed yes;
I was
nothing which is everything.

Then i met him.

like a dead man he came
an echo of past dreamscapes a
creature made out of gold leaf and gentle cruelty cruel gentleness
and greens blues fire-reds and
of love. I saw, like
in a mirror how
the colours come together transcending the transient;
how awe is what spirit looks like seen through eyes of
eternal creatures, gods and
the dead

and then
I saw
how it comes together
and what gives it life.

I cupped that life in my palms. Imagine a well or floods raging and
silver-coloured moondrops – nordic winters passed – lost languages re-created into
new undaunting noises unreachable unhearable but


the holy grail in bodily fluids- dirt under fingernails like gold I
cupped that life in my palms and drank it with every hollow with every
ridge; these strange crevices and unfamiliar – yet known (now known, eternally unfamiliar)

places and spaces that is called my body like it was ever known. To him, it was, I think-
no no- i believe (i am sure) I was.known
to him; always, ever – forever – before and after: known. I am I am I am I am known

the dream of Dafydd Barry

the sons of selkie-women;
inhabitants of blue-rimmed cauldrons;
kingly coracles made to burden
the back of but a single man;
carried towards the river-mouth,
laid to rest until met by the tongue
of the tide;

they shall one day inherit the ocean,
the inmost ocean;
the shimmering vault of worlds underfoot;
which, as legacy dictates, they have protected,
with lives and death and loneliness and loss.

old men of thousand seas; blessed are they;
with insight;  secretive dreams of bloated fish,
belly up; blessed are they,
with knowledge; the horizon mirrored in scales
is no mere reflection- of this the sea-men are keepers;
thus honoring the sacrifices of broken waves;

death, which shall be reclaimed by all depth;
waters edge and bottom; endings; just like
those of selkie-womens sons;
who shall be rewarded with sleep;
in a motherly embrace.

endings, thus, are beginnings;
for those who first opened their eyes
washed up among strangely shaped rocks;

beyond our reach;
beyond everything land-born men
may fathom; are allowed to fathom, every
truth, which, by universal law, is hidden;
unto times’ end, or beyond-

like the secrets of fish, the language of seagulls and
the invisible light in the Marianus trench,
we have no access; no-one has;

except the sons of selkie-women;
with their kind bladderwrack-hands,
their gentle, fluttering cockerel-hearts.

on the subject of pride and humbleness-You, Me and Dylan Thomas is promoted by eminent organisations


I can’t believe that so many help spreading info about the You Me and Dylan Thomas  retreat. It’s simply amazing!

And still-please help spread the event!

The magnificent artwork is done by Håkan Eklund, swedish painter and poet.

the phoenix sings Johnny Cash


my barrier is low
my wrists are broken
my eyes are beautiful and somewhat dead
my voice is passionate in it’s own cold

thrust your face in this general direction, now. yes, this is too soon but soon it will be too late

i dreamt you were kind. that’s the reason i know my salvation is close, eyes almost shut.

the mountains that never felt my touch is waiting still. not for long now

and the wind and the rain and the unexpected storm shall
drown my hair and then the
sea in which it will blossom, my hair, my hair will touch the
surface of all things. my hair is
a very bright dark

the trees are not interested nor are the birds

i am the watcher of no men



the sunset look like coppery birds taking flight, dissolving

never did i know where they went.

now i know that which answers
the true question:
it is of no importance


the excruciating blindness
is blessed is mercy something we have
an introvert star-shaped thundercloud

lighten up, my heart, one day all
is silent, one night
the lightning will dress you up
in bluebells.