In the air tonight

Ufo is a concept
like spirit or
entity
it can be anything
in & of the ether
or even without
it alltogether


to merge with  our mental atmosphere
it will use marvelous tools
prearranged  for
its emergence

the spaceship is a familiar
with its futuristic
& high tech abilities
that satisfies our time
perception of the fantastic

In the olden days
before the movies & picture books,
there where  hoards of spirits,leprechauns,phantoms,gods  of nature,fairies & trolls,
who visited humans & made them, sometimes, wholly disappear,loose entirely their wits,& later perhaps, found deranged in the wildeness,feeding on moss,bark & raw meat.But not all the time.
On other occasions,they would return invigorated,& portrayed a wisdom & cunning,like that of personified owls,or wizards of old.
Today this mindboggling magic
have other ways of disclosing itself
in & by our collective & preprogrammed subconcious perception
of  that unexplainable phenomenal

there`s a movie running in the background
& whoever takes a look behind
the curtains will notice
Steven Spielberg,enjoying
a box of unpopped
corn
wich he pops
in his mouth


he will tell you that you where not supposed to discover this
& then he will throw unpopped kernels at you
to make you somehow forget what you just saw

most of the times Steven succeed
but there are times when
he doesn`t,& thats when a story like this,arrives at the station of the daily.


He imagined a spaceship & one day it came blinking & tooting & took him along
far away into the stars of a neighbouring universe yonder time.
But he longed for his earthly habits,& soon he reemerged from the great beyond & this is what he didn`t say & this is what he didn`t do & it was all good ,he twice thought to himself,lest his lofty memory should catch a breeze .


There was something in the air that night
& every breath he took
made the stars & the
sky move closer
& closer
& with one more inhalation
he became one with
it all
& it was great

Pain,the.

I look for pain
in every pleasure
& pleasure
in every pain

im a painful pleasure
seeker

finding pleasure
where i hurt

& hurt where
pleasure is found

im a human being

a mix of animal

& something else

of wich i have both

humerous & tragic

ideas


so i search for the true pain of living

the bloody weltschmertz
of the world
where i see myself looking back
with an agreeable appearance
& not the clownish & colourful
in wich i despair

the clownish part is my secret
but my pain is real & unclothed
& gives me character & sympathy
with fellow arms men
or so they used to
say
in the army boot camp


i was raised in pain
& reckognize only truth
in  the hurting of myself or my  fellow men

pain is the last of the masks
that appears to be of
the flesh

the original expression
of the brute
who`s animal
nature have been
denied for as long
as there have
been caves
& prisons

My sympathy & admiration

to people who`s pain

make my own pain more

endurable

for is it not written

that when there is no more

room in hell

the dead will walk

the earth?


there is so much written information
that will convince you of the other fascinating subject,after another
& leave you wondering how someone in the past
know exactly what you are thinking right now.
A synchronisation of minds swimming among the waves & streams of abyssmal sea of time,& in their merging,a reaction,a noise in the walls,a sudden gush of wind,or perhaps a hiccup.


Listen to the voice of the one who`s pain is greater than himself,& be forever in awe of her nervewrecking revelations.

To the one who`s pain is smaller than himself,listen not & turn hastingly away from his lying abodes.
For in his words are but maggots & in his mind is but murder.


True pain reveals itself  only to  the ones who know what hurting is  all about.Like a familiar sigil  or a totem of untold tales.


Pain is the only beauty, that beauty,the only beauty there is.The pain of existence is the pain of beauty & the love of the same.

Behind every great & manly laughter
there is an equally  profound  pain

Listen thou to the pain  behind
that laugh of the jolly one
& rejoice  not
but reflect upon
that clever hiding
of his true name

for it is in the hiding
& in the hiding
is it
hidden

& beautiful
all the same

ikkje slik

Ho var ikkje slik me kjende henne
men slik ho sjølv kjende seg best
og det uroa sjølvsagt nokon å einkvann
slik vinden av å til
uroar  graset
eller det nygredde håret
på ein fornem
frue
eller også
herremann


ho visste kva dei
tenkte å så
gjorde ho motsatt
berre for å erte
litt og kan hende
tipse dei om
at ho sansa
kva dei lurte på
i hemmelege stunder

for henne var
ingenting skjult
& ingenting gøymt

når nokon hadde gøymt noko
ekstra godt
som dei ikkje ynskja
at ho skulle sjå

blei det hemmelige
berre
endå tydeligare
for henne

og ho skjøna
at det var noko
der som ville bli
oppdaga men
at det var så hemmeleg
at dei som gøymde
på dette
ikkje eingong sjølv
lenger heilt hugsa
kva det var

så ho hugsa
for dei
utan å sei eit
ord om det ho
såg
men fjorten
eller fleir

for det var ikkje alt
som kunne seiast
med få ord

Lya din Gud

Du ska lya din Gud

å itje fær me lygn


å dei skitne skonå

ta dei av


føre du

byr deg fram


åt ho som

skin i det

høgaste



høyr buda  frå

herrens

englar når

deira gyldne basunar

let


å kvikk deg

no

opp i andi

for den som vitjar

i augneblinken


er stor

og endå større

en du evna

å tru




lya din Gud

lyder englanes

bud

lya din Gud

å ikkje vend

deg om eller

snu

når ho kallar

deg Ove,Kjell-inge,Beatrice

eller Åker-Knud


opne deg åt herrens herlegdomar

og ta del i himmeriket ho lova

for er det ikkje både skrive og sunge

at den som gjer rom skal sjølv

rommast

å finne seg sjølv

til rette i para diset ?



kan hende

du tenkjer eg er galen

sjuk eller også rusa på illegal narkotika

men det har inga effekt

på meg


kan hende du tenkjer eg er homo

eller at eg ikkje er det no

men var det før

eller omvendt

men det har heller inga

effekt på meg slik

eg er


mitt snåle sinn forblir

uberørt av tvilens nag & tvangens ildske tenger

hjå meg får dei inga tak over seg

& ingen velredde senger




for så mykje elska herren deg/oss

at han let kvar mann og kvar

kvinne ha sine eigne

tankar og meiningar

om dei så måtte væra

aldri saa

upassande for andre

tenkande og deira

tankegods



så mykje elska herren deg

at han let øyro dine være

som vinger i vinden


og nasen

lik

ei hytte med to

hål

der det

bur like mange busemenn







så tok han rotta på meg

men den var ikkje svolten

og somna på fanget mitt

medan eg strauk ho

forsiktig på

ryggen

how!

How was it that i could hear myself speak behind the words of another person?
How come all these little secrets of myself,keep appearing in the things that i read ?
How big is really this mind that i measure by the size of my walls,meters,minutes & hours ?
How come all these questions arise to be asked of & pondered upon for aeons within aeons of time?
Don`t answer.Just let me burn like red hot coals & hear me honour that wich goes bump in the night.


Picture an old train that puffs along  from here into forever-ever, & sometimes later , huffing all the way back again,just in time,or just in those small elfin books of rhyme.A familiar vessel,a humorous confinement  of that creative spectre,who`s memory ,remains a live cell in the cosmic-orgasmic sea, in wich nautilus reigns in splendours of wich no mortal man hath seen.(yet)

Who`s voice is it,that speaketh in the deep of my mind,knowing good from evil,but the one who`s name hath no letters,but yet unidentified symbols wich generate a state of craze or hypnosis upon anyone unfearful in the attempt  to decode them.

Who was it that wrote the words: i shall write the words,& the words shall write themselves?

It was I who wrote them,proclaimeth the voice of the one that is two & three.
It was I who wrote them,proclaimeth the voice of the one that is four,six,& nine.
It was I......& so it goes.The numbers shift,but the message remains all the same: I,the first noise of the egomaniac.I, the first sign of life upon the surface of time.

I came out of the dark,like I was made of it,but the dust of stars & the cobwebs, soon made I visible to the keen eye, who`s existence in the great void, inspired a fusion between this & that, & so I be-came a double one.Two of the same,but not entirely so.To the untrained in the arts,there would be nothing to speak of,but people, who`s eyes see beyond the seductive flatterings of the veil,a whole other dimension is revealed.
A dimension in wich wholesomeness plays in the background,leaving out all possibility for small mindedness.



I shalt rest my case
on its shelf
& hang my soaked hat
to dry above
the oven
& then i will reflect upon
the mirages
that emerges from
the sweetness
of the good
night

Walkie-talkie

He was a walking dead
& moaned unevenly about
in a state
of stark oblivion

he did attempt to write
something of the meaningful
on his writing board
but all the more he wrote
it became tormentingly evident
the mental delerium
in wich he thus
encumbered by the
severe law
of undiluted poison & ancient
magical reciept

he was not in this world
nor was he in the next
but somewhere in between
was he
& moving to & fro
though  no one could
ever really
say  or
know

but surely was he no
longer to be considered
to be made of
the living flesh

or so i was told in a handwritten note that i found
in the clutching claw
of my favorite mailpigeon
who`s first name
is Maw


but then & again
i have been told  o` so many things
so many wild & unbelievable
things
that no longer may i put my finger
on reality & say
this is it,
or over there,thats it!

because  reality
turns into something else, the instant i believe i know how,where & what it is made of.

Reality doesn`t like to be fixed into any frame of mind & will most urgently revolt against any such attempt.That is why many an artist loose their mind in favor of the spark of the creative  genius.It is an offering of that most precious  pearl,in return for an artistic configuration of the soul.A symbolic giving away of the everyday personality,in the firm conviction that another personality of more wisdom and perhaps even a touch of arrogance,will take over & move incredible mountains,divine the future & find lost & hidden gold.




to be a friend with reality,is to become reality
with all it emplies & not.

who knows for sure,in what reality that  zombie wanders, drunkenly about in absentmindedness
but he who`s fascination for things occult,hath succumbed to the dark forbidden rites of blasphemies & conjurations of that wich is wholly inappropriate,even to mention, in such *elegant company.

perhaps one of a certain caliber,may forward himself ,into such vistas  of  disturbing taboo & perhaps may he even be rewarded with the knowledge & the conversation of his holy guardian spirit.But then again,& just as swiftly as the sudden outbreak of a storm, may he be pushed,dragged & pulled by every limb,on the first morning of that  most unlawful conjuration.
perhaps lacks the support to balance such construction  of the mind & its tendency to outweigh the universe.
& perhaps there is a place & a time into wich such odd yearnings may silently pass.
perhaps there isn`t.Perhaps we will never know the answer to why perhaps always intrudes upon an otherwise & perhaps even a little snobbish reflection.

There is no sure test
but the testing thereof
& who reckognizes the signature of the wilderness gods
 hers shall  strength &  softness be
& the animals will
do what they do
& the storm
& the trees
they will do it also
& so is it with
all things
together
in a motion
picture
show


& should the one who`s mind is elsewhere
return to haunt for that wich is not for the taking
then be strong & give him not what he craveth
but speak thou, his true name & behold the
shakings & the twistings thereof
observe the adressing  power of
the spirited word
as it takes hold of the corpse
& banishes the
hideous spells
one by one

observe & listen
to the freeing
of that  soul & know
that this was the sole work
of that most inappropriate
of wich i shalt
not mention
now, nor ever

take shelter when it rains
& eat the food that nourisheth the spirit
for the testings have begun
& the voice of the elders
have let us know how to keep
the sacred fire
burning

but who burns
must be fed
with dry wood
& not of itself
does the tree
come to the fire
& not of itself
does the fire
come to the
cold & hungry man

only by fire
may fire spring

& only by air
may the wind
come in

Espirantsa

There art rugged mountains of questions to be asked & even  deeper oceanes of answers to be given.
Stories unheard of,will be told,& hot meals on their plates, will be shortly eaten before they get cold.
Old silence will unravel many wondrously youthful & magical spectres of sound & the ecchoing-eccho thereof.
& sometimes it will just remain silence,& not a hush of thought will be noticed.

& so they turned to look
but what they saw was already seen
& what they heard
was another reminder
of their last word
wich was the child
of their first
who`s name they
had mixed up with
their last child
who`s name
was
Omega



Ye should never settle with the conviction that ye know what everything means,forthereby closeth thy door to greater knowledge & thou becometh like a brick in a wall that supporteth isolation by weight.
Feathers knows the air by adaption to that subtleness & so should thy mind be.Adaptive,everchanging,everflowing in the stream that is consciousness.Or the river of the same.

Listen to the air of the turbulant winds that moves thy house
& maketh thy spirit to wander
is it not the lord of life
that breathes on thee
& giveth strength to
the roots of
strong trees?

answer if you must
but know
that i am not there
but here
& there


know not this
& know not that
but knowingly
select balance
in all thy ways
& speaketh
not overly
of trivial matters

Be blunt!

Be every detail of the art & then add from thereon,the colours & the dancing.
Be what the saints inspire in thee,& dream of thyself in the mirror of enlightment.
But listen carefully! There are hoaxters among us,poor mimicry of wisdom & foulplay.Observe theyr`e arrogance,take note,& foremost,take heed!
For these thiefes of moral stealeth into the minds of good men,& maketh them to lust for their neighbours car or wife.Lo! I swear I have seeneth more than a mortal man mayeth endure.


& so do thou asketh
what & who I am
to warn thee of this & that
of wich thee art not
overly pleased

& i respond

not


i have my duties
outside the writing
table
& often i must
answer to a call
of nature

so therefor &thereby
will thou be free
to ponder
of what nature
didst thou
not learn
of in school?

was there more
to nature
than what thine
eye & ear was
accustomed to
see & hear?

(& if so,how much more?)

(.........)  ?

(............................................................) ?

(.......................................................................................................................) ?


(............................................................................................................................................................(!)

?

egg & smør

The wind is full of voices murmuring & chanting  like an old hymn to the gods of air.

They say many things,& they say it many times,over & over again,& into ethernity

Bound & released forevermore,in a process of rebirth & the evermutating awareness thereof.

But & then

Did anyone ever reckognize the very beauty of the symbol but a child

who`s mind still pure to behold divinity in a blissful gold.

& then

He said with the voice of an old ladyman

moved about like a crippled war veteran

& withered & wrenched in the nasty cold: I  shall be like a silken  flower unto the sun,& stretch myself sideways & upwards.But my strong hungry roots will ever sink deeper,to reach fresh water & stealthy food.

I shall loose myself in the beautific light & find myself again in the darkness of  night.

But ever & in between,there is a freedom for me,unspoken of,unwritten of,& even undreamed.

Angry winter ghost

Snow & ice covers the earth
in a blanket of silence
like a long forgotten portrait
of the mind

even time
appears to be frozen
in a desolate
cocoon

eternity
speaks their tounge
in deep
deathlike sleep
of forever

bony fingers of illusion
plays a symphony
unheard
of
& makes
solemn
children of us
all

escape me
& you will be free
utters the wind
not
but
the chilling suspense
of
its cold brooding
omens
on my
timeless door

isolation
they cry
in their locked up
rooms

ice o

lation

i respond
in my locked
up room
of ancient horrors
& some more

but again
silence
wins
& devours
 all hope
like a starved
ghost

angry little
man with
a rounded head
glistening
in the pain
of the light
that is not

& his

anger haunts
the angry
back & forth
returning just
in time
to score

i see their deadened eyes
looking away
refusing to shine
while denying the
memory of
life

like deranged
prisoners on
the island
of man
& his love
of war

it was never
& never it
was

(forevermore) (?)