Bullshit

entrancement

heat

produce intellectualist

bullshit, dumpsters

of anti-consumerist lifestyles.

leave this non-aggression pact,

the janitor told me

as he made

hell over hill

his refusal to work and

pain gave me

bruxism,

sweating while hunted.

Dusk is gray matter

inside my ocean

of lateral time.

Excess, red pinko

the jolt and then flaming curves

inside.

You are nothing,

only rioja to loose

they tell him again while carrying

weapons under the ponchos,

red flashes and blue

daybreak.

© Anders Enochsson

White Heat

She is leaning over the table

again.

The ferry's dining room

resonates in mushroom and ochre.

John nods,

chewing his hoary eel while

trying to appreciate vague contours.

Her flaxen features and

the outline of the tapestry in

the closing illumination makes

eyeballs bulge.

She involuntarily swallows, followed by

the endurable slow moving

inside the gristly pyloric canal.

A remote fog horn.

Senescence embezzling,

osteoporosis inside his hot fluids as

they leave for the car;

finally the posture,

white heat

within the soft tissues

igniting.

© Anders Enochsson

Ketch

Blind with a body of holes when the tide turns.

Stiff bloody eyes, too late to see human migration

press back; leaving only rubbish.

Waking up.

The woman's dreary voice calls him from above,

he shouts and

forces up the last eyeball;

aluminum debris far and wide.

Plains barely visible in the dying searchlights

until looking behind.

Outlandish indigo stares right back.

I was fired, she says.

Relief before the speaker calls him:

"(...) come to the main desk, please."

Forget this.

Fowl still rides the western sea

and mizzen sail wobbles in anticlockwise trade wind.

The cerebral cortex rest.

© Anders Enochsson 2009

Voyelles

(...) Gulfs of shadow: E, candour of mists, of tents,

Lances of proud glaciers, white kings, shivers of parsley:

I, purples, bloody salivas, smiles of the lonely

With lips of anger or drunk with penitence:

U, waves, divine shudders of viridian seas,

Peace of pastures, cattle-filled, peace of furrows

Formed on broad studious brows by alchemy (...)

Rimbaud

Down the street with

rapture running down my chin.

I blow my wig in the smog and

you are really nasty.

I am a martyr.

Packed together

they are absolving themselves

before my ripe body.

Years advance into

this frigid personification.

Shapes that nevermore

will be able to

play, ball or eat.

I wonder why she stayed?

On a floor depicting an octopus in

disrepair, covered in mud

she scoffs it down.

As the van comes right at me

you tell me in your

irritating calm tone of voice that

I must not bite my fingernails and

before the cimmerian depression

run across me you finally

mank valkyrjur of Viðrir;

Hrist, Mist, Herja,

Hlökk, Geiravör,

Göll, Hjörþrimul,

Gunnr, Herfjötur,

Skuld, Geirönul,

Skögul ok Randgníð.

Ráðgríðr, Göndul,

Svipul, Geirskögul,

Hildr ok Skeggöld,

Hrund, Geirdriful,

Randgríðr ok Þrúðr

Reginleif ok Sveið,

Þögn, Hjalmþrimul,

Þrima ok Skalmöld.

© Anders Enochsson 2009

"When it comes to string theory, language is merely poetry; i.e. it describes daydreams and fake images that don't have anything to do with the real world of undeniable facts."

(yours truly: the Abercrombie)

(…) covered in snowfall,

and there is scarce daylight.

Early commuters are already leaving for the trains

while cold air steadily enters via the

margins of darkish

windows of the affluent room.

They shudder under the quilt

and last night's dead meat asks

them whether they are desolated or not.

Nothing.

One of them snores.

Finally, somebody awakens and quickly leaves

for the bathroom,

still feeling sick.

The toilet flushes one time and then again

and the pipes laughs sharply.

© Anders Enochsson

Sausage Snow (updated)

(…) covered in snowfall,

and there is scarce daylight.

Early commuters are already leaving for the trains

while cold air steadily enters via the

margins of darkish

windows of the affluent room.

They shiver under the quilt

and last night's dead meat asks

them wheter they are desolated or not.

Nothing.

One of them snores.

Finally, somebody awakens and quickly leaves

for the bathroom,

still feeling sick.

The toilet flushes one time and then again

and the pipes laugh sharply.

© Anders Enochsson 2009