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04-18-19 at 1:59:11 pm

A Series of Dreams

I saw you in the winter-time;
I saw you in the snow;
I saw you thru’ the camera-lenses.

I didn’t know your name, but
I think they called you Schmo
as you ranted and put up your fences.

This was a series of dreams.
And you went under in a Youtube-stream.

I saw you ‘mong the bees and birds;
I saw you in the Spring,
as you clawed your way out of this gig.

At the same time, I saw nothing –
this was a Youtube thing;
a two-dimensional story and a rig.

This was a series of dreams…

As it wilted; as it rotted –
I saw you in the Fall,
and you put your shoes on in defeat.

It was bloody; it was slaughter;
you had crust and you had gall.
You where cutting, cutting to the meat.

This was a series of dreams…

The cruellest month was August;
high summer at high noon,
as everything dried up – it was dire.

The slow trickle from the creek
and the dam that was too soon;
the echo in the well; the woods on fire.

This was a series of dreams…

In the Eye of the Bee-holder

All the words that people sayin’;
all the places you can’t stay in;
all the plans that mice are layin’;
all the Ables; all the Cains;
all the thunder; all the rain
over mountain. Over plains.
Over you.

Al the subterranean slavin’.
Day out and day in.
All the prayers that people prayin’;
all the churches that they pray in;
all the stock; all the terrain.
Gone in Kansas – found in Main
without shoes.

All the Danish that predane
all the Spaniards there in Spain.
If you’d weigh ‘em, they’re a grain.
In Augusta; in Albane:
alright’n ‘n’ OK’n.
Just a small head. Gust of wind.
Set a sailin’


If you knew what a joy it is to see ya’,
you would limit your exposure to the world.

If you knew how many wanna be ya’,
you’d say: the aperture’s too high as I excel.

When you smile, everyone is happy
to be shone, alit, awhile by your pearly whites.

Eight miles high – you and sister Kappy,
re-defining multitude as a human rite.


Vi har en sprätt,
vi har en sprätt,
vi har en sprätt i byn.
Hans tyngdpunkt, den är låg;
hans näsa upp’ i skyn.

Han vandrar fram och åter
ner’ vid gödselstackens fot
och drömmer om ett Shangri-la
däruppe. Idiot!

Han vidtar sina mått och steg.
Han själv är inte mätt,
men cirka en-och-fyrtio,
om man mäter vitt och brett.

“Se till mig som liten är”,
sa frälsar’n i sitt stall.
Vår sprätt ser ner på alla,
om han tar med sig en pall.

Vi har en sprätt…

Hans revanchism är utan gräns;
hans självbild, den är skev;
hans ärelystnad kallas dröm;
hans girighet tar slev.

Det räcker inte till att vara
född med silversked.
Hans segerhuva: köpt på e-bay,
och fraktfri var den med.

Vi har en sprätt…