photo by Ilkka Porttikivi


It has been a yellow room,

Since i last saw it aflame
in sleep,

There were strangers beneath the sheets
As abondoned in a corner was a wrap of arms not known

Everyday i woke withdrawn from calm,
the roof collapsed on me
and i saw myself digging into black sand

Dark figures stood by the door
the shadows of which were framed and on the walls
My breath being all that i heard of myself
i shouted at the walls,so i could talk back

There was a window,i had never visited near
until the day a strange blackness
started to settle over the trees,
the sky rumbled and with it squeaked
a little boy in the yard below

He had never seen me,
His calm prevented from me the desire to join
his fancy,I shook with fear
It began to snow and his bald head turned white
Like an echo from within my void
spilled out words never spoken to me

"You will get cold down there,
Lest the clouds have other places to visit
would you like to watch the snowstorm from my window"

He looked up..without a mouth to speak
or a nose to breathe from where hell was cut into
as around me the snow now fell,
I had fallen off the window
at his feet,where i sniffed the last of my cold blood
The yellow room aglow,
despite another shadow to roam the walls

Relationship

Beyond the white prairie
is a wolf snarling
at a dying tree

Old,beneath its trunk
is the earth frozen with blood
from the wolf's fangs

the organs of love,
dead beneath the ground
as  around the heart

Dusk

The sun,
its setting gloom
meet in my ashtray

as two empty boats
pass each other,
at sea

Poem on the shelf

It has been standing on crutches
i bought from a priest,
Looking over the edge it has seen
the floor weigh itself up and down
like an astronaut tearing off his space suit
years ago even an empty envelop,
would have drawn before itself
a path beyond the roof
would have assumed a galaxy like figuration

In its many lives this shelf
witnessed the burning of effigies
that resembled each moment,
dust and its devices were rubbed off its shoulders

But a poem has heart,
it has character enough
to be the short skirted girl behind
an elevated glass door at 2 am in the morning

My nucleus within itself
argues about the propensity
towards such things
I could take the chair's hand
to reach for it,or to hang myself

But my head,already
is an anthology of dead poems
as my body is of dead men..

Time of death

Three stations waiting for the same train,

A passenger having boarded the wrong one

Fatality of love passing between the rocks

i bought her steady things,
to lift herself out of gloom
i stood between her and the walls
of my room,to stop the echos of her cries
turn her away from home,
She had long been forgotten
like yesterdays forecast,
for that is when i pushed her into
my bed,and asked her why she was a rock
i had long tried to cultivate,
She kicked me in the face
for which i let her eat my soul
If only she knew who i was today,
she would want me dead
for i let her go,and that is why
it is by the edge of the sea,
you will find me,
somewhere between the rocks and her..

Harvest pt2

His auburn skin is just another
swatch to keep a group of leaning trees
above the ground,
Stretched all the way back home is the
feeling of having come too far,
Behind his back,familiar with the sky's
dementia as with her husband's
mother knits with fingers dashed
with partial moistness
the coffins of her last two prayers


                                             photo by nick wheeler

The sky thickens like a recent
memory of being sullen
as the gentle thudding of his mother's
footsteps,is just as deafening as
the feeling of a raindrop
slinking down his spine,
It is poisonous,as if father rescued
them rain drops from his last breath,
and mother o mother you can't help but smile,
you can't help but smile