(  for Pan )



There’s a great god walking this 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.


my friend told me once

looking at the stars in nights when it was -20 degrees celsius, as a fifteen-year old boy, in hours he laid there.

he told me that it was not that cold, really, and that he waited for the northern lights- which he never got to see.


I have this wonderful memory
sometimes I think that people would deem it sad deem the snow constant, but first, to with a few words try and light the light of
my friend;

I got to know him a couple of years ago at a poet-gathering;

I arrived with the lingering loneliness and anxiety and the forceful self-hatred of one like me, one of the Not-Beautiful
one of the Fearing
at least I know a lot about a little. about the wrong things.

and we talked and he told me where he came from;
The Northern part

and that kind of sprung a leak of
i don’t know, but he did not say anything to make me think

the silence that ice and snow and darkness and the midnight sun creates when combined that’s the life of barren land and crumbling heavens but steady mountains
it’s infinite. eternal. what does it create, in a man and, how do one handle the black sky and the red and the pale nights and

it ended there
cut off

afraid. afraid of all the questions. they are forever too

and they grow. they are voudou-born-snakes in the belly

i won’t ask my friend if i’m allowed to write about him. some questions, some- well you know


we were in many ways unlikely to be friends, but we learned how to behave around each other, to know.

he can’t comfort, or so he says, and I know nothing about how it was is for him; was is forever or never
even if i suspect some things you just don’t ask

i don’t know if he knows the truth.
that he does not give me comfort. no,

he lights the spark that the storms blew out
he wraps me in words soft as feather duvets and I  want to give so much to my friend, if he could only accept it

about lighting the spark: when I’m sad he reads to me.
and then I fall asleep

sleep is the ultimate gift from all good things

(“the God of Sleep has made his house of marvellous designs”/Current 93, lovely song)


“Strange Fruit” with Billie Holiday. I believe it was the very last video she made, she probably suffered from neurological damage caused by alkohol and pills (some call it love and i don’t know there is no way to ask or to know but yes, i believe so, love, we die for love) and that’s why her eyes looked like they did- but that look, that infinity, I know it, and I said to my friend”those were my eyes”. and he answered “do you really believe that they’re not your eyes anymore?”

then we sat in silence watching Robbie Robertson duelling Eric Clapton in a guitar-battle of titans
drinking whisky


content. i believe that’s the right word for it. we were content. the smell of coffee boiled in a kettle was in the air like velvet
you could taste it, like it was floating, like liquid, invisible smoke

the sun smiled outside the curtains. we did not need it to smile that particular day. such a thing is rare


we went to the beach the day after that or maybe it was the day before it doesn’t matter. what matters is that i was honestly completely happy. t’was the joy of a child- the giddy giggle, playing mermaid, splashing, toppling over, that’s when i look like a seal, my head popping up far out, out in the water

i don’t know why i didn’t tell him i was happy. but i know i didn’t.


Fear is forever


some people will never let go and i am one of them and that doesn’t mean escaping from conflicts that means what can not be said because if you’re such a person you know

my friend, he’s sometimes like a father
and i don’t know at all how it feels for him
and i really know, i do know

i do know.


i have no idea how i came to write about this.

but it’s not necessary to get an answer
i’ve rid myself of questioning for now

it’s moments, only moments. but they are moments of freedom and, Yes,
they will pass all to soon but now i can’t care


i’m wide awake

i’m gloriously empty-