poem by Bengt O Björklund

down by the pick pocket market again
delivering free contact and smiles
reloading day’s opportunity
amongst the lost and the slow dyeing

redemption is not an option here
where salty winds carry dead women
on their broken shoulders
there’s a tilt towards the distant sea

rich men rumble with binoculars
fastened to their wallets
there’s no magic carpet for the poor
there’s no such thing

ripped and wired to the end
clocked and seeded
I do remember the beginning
before the I bubble burst

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Leveled in Days on the Run by Bengt O Björklund

leveled in days on the run
subdued and abandoned
like a small baby
on the steps of an empty church
the wind dies

a love strong like the sea
rolled in winter silence
beneath translucent grass
there is a magpie
in the tree outside my window

sky grey tolls and calls
birds and graves to gather
by the end of the road
there are rumours
of a hostile take over

there are times when motion
hides in the notion of breathing
days when all is birth
when the sky’s a ruptured egg
and death a different smell

..

spoiled by religion and war by Bengt O Björklund

spoiled by religion and war
little man clings to the book
straps all his cold coin sorrow
to the chest of a last day

he who will not wallow in bitter I
abolishing all claims and holds
will be the one to bleed no more
in better days perhaps or not

dark fruit rotting in the sinister
murderous madness with no water
there are no safe havens eyes
there is only I you see a fire fly

smoldering sobbing with swords
there can be no two of eye
only the throbbing masses of no
in greed malice and no love reptile

belonging is not a psychotic
shooting amphetamine or blame
the first frost flew
there were chores and hands

driven with bells sounding loud by Bengt O Björklund

driven with bells sounding loud
I see no other I as road dips into red
recollections on fire flaming high
with words at the end of empty barrels

scrolled like the ancients poor memory
I steam refusals like a powdered gun man
caught in the sullen room of claws and theft
with only a towel and a death certificate

young men die young and coarse
religion crawls chafed and burning hard
more men are rolling in the waves tonight
there is a subtle reference to dead seaweed

it’s the juggling season you see
where homage is just another page
singing red and wet and final
we are like dogs hovering on line