Two broken
Eggs on the floor.

Flour and milk on
The bench.

Sinks both full of
Dishes and knives,

Pots and stirrers and
Ladles. The bin

Has long since given
Up on containing.

Bacon in air.
Me on sofa.

What on Earth
Happened here?

She's home. *I got
Hungry.

I am a nervous poet; sleep with my pen under my pillow.
All my sheets are white. And that's despite the fact that

I sleep with all my verbs on.

I've had friends that were good who were poets that are dead,
And the poem always got them in their sleep.

I rhyme with one eye open. I give birth in my sleep like a bear
To cubs that have left their crap on the notepad in the morning.

All over it; like letters from one poet to another -a thankful thing
Since poets say nice things nicer than non-poets; and even insult with

Slightly more finesse.

But it always gets you in the end, the poem. It gets you with the
Caps Lock, and you can see the Head of the Title, and then...

I'm a nervous poet; sleep with my pen under my pillow.
I traded it for a *****.

I'll dig with it.

A Sunday morning out there that
Makes me want to open every
Window and merge outside with
In-.
I could eat the weather; it's so nice.

She smells like fresh laundry
When she sleeps.
Slight dreamsmile on lips that say
They love me daily, and when I run my finger
Over her latest tattoo, they part in a smile even
Fuller. She stretches with a morning moan.
Never interrupt a streching girl.

God...
I hope to God that there is one
So this gratitude is recieved
By The Deserving.

I never pray; I never don't.
I've never been outside a church.

All I have is the same as the richest man
In the world.
The currency is just slightly other.

Beauty seeping from the pores of
Everything, and contrary to the claims of mr.
MC Hammer, I can -indeed-
Touch this.

To be able to rest in love;
Lean ones back against
The notion:

Someone wishes you  
Nothing but well.
That your every dream be

Sweet, each step you take light.
Everyday hills like pebbles,
All sleep sufficient.

No tears but those of joy.
To be able to rest in love.
I open my eyes

To morning. Untired.
Back against her warmth.
Leaning.

Las Vegas hit me like a
Jab on the jaw
Rome was an adventure

But I always felt more a
Stranger than
Here, where

Every face |even those of
Smitten tourists|
Carry the features of

"Friend". **** you, London.
Your every borough makes me
As warm as the arms

Of an ex you wish
Wasn't
One.

To be kind and patient.
To see the child within
The heart behind a thoughtless
Mouth, and count to ten.
Treat it as such.
Be biggest.
King.  

To let the lashes heal hidden
Under a heavy cape
And not mention your pain.
Judge only
Those in need of judgement;
Leave the rest
To play.
King.

To ride into battle first; sword
Raised to an enemy campaign
And hurt only foes
With steel as wide as
The history of your beloved
Land. Win.
King.

To only wear your crown
Ceremonially.
All other days a monk; humbly
Uncovered beneath
The eyes of God.
King.

I haven't seen her since Friday.  
Weekends with her move
Like electrons around
Nucleae; without her like
An old slug up a mountain side.
Now she's less than
An hour
Away.

Apart from daily good night calls,
I've spoken to none but our cat.
Now my voice sounds alien
When I fill her bowl,
And she looks at me as if slightly
Worried for my mind,
Before she eats.
Don't worry, Wolfie, I
Hear myself say.
*She's less than
An hour
Away...

I'm better now.
It only hurts when
I manage to
Breathe.

I'll help you pack.
Carry to your Volvo.
When you leave,
I'll either wave back or

Throw this stone
When I know you're
Out of
Reach.

You thank me for taking
Things so well.

Remember, only one of us
Stopped loving
The other.
The other

Is still the same. Only pale with
Pain and shortness of breath.

After denial, confusion and
Anger, all that's left is
Character.
Will you scream at the sword
As it turns, or laugh
Carelessly bleeding out?

I'll handle things how I always
Have. Carve my features on
This stone, so my softness won't
Soften you.

I'm more than
Just a straight face,
You know.

Viking ground. The belly of
Norway. Music like thunder
Keeping whole villages awake.

Swords, spikes, norse jewelry
And black, black metal
Of the kind that honours

Those who were here before
These hundreds of metal heads
And contemporary heathens.

She works in the beer tent,
Throwing long gazes my way,
That I return.

She took
Me
Here.

Stars above a stage lit with a
Thousand shades of neon that
Emphasize the

Ground locked mist; breath
Of Odin and His believers.
I love this music; this brutal

Noice within system. I love these
People. They seem scary from
Afar, but share a brothership

Within their worship.
Enslaved is one of the most
Famous bands within the

Genre. The guys still join the
Roadies, clearing the stage
From their gear.

A friend of mine from Vașcău
Lovingly brings me homemade wine.
It doesn't have that touch of
Beautiful berserker my father's
Wine whispers of; it forms a warm
Woman's hand around your
Innerhead, while you draw slow
Swigs of sweet silk
Into the astral
Bloodstream of
Your soul.

It scares me.

He talked like a ******.
Walked like one.
Loudly assisting tourists in the
Line outside the bus.
My luck seated him in
Front of me. I answered
Evasively. Mentally begging

Shut up. Shut up.
I was tired.
I was hungry.

"Would you like a piece of pizza?"
He handed me a sealed
Bag. This close
His eyes contradicted his person.
Sober. Friendly. He smelled
Of aftershave and
Society.

"I shouldn't eat this, I'm working
With a Yoga project
To help addicts recover
Through meditation.
Should stay healthy. Been clean
For three years, though I
Know it doesn't seem like it.

I just love to talk to people."
I ate his pizza. We spoke.  
Squinted in laughter.
He cried like a girl when  
He saw Avatar, he confessed.
"My sons still take the p...
Outta me for that.
I'm so glad they'll never

Have to go through
What I did. I'll
Make sure of
That for
Sure, for
Sure."

I usually write poetry
On the bus.
This Friday afternoon
I lived it.

I am a giant.

Near blind with seeing too
Much and squinting
When speaking to
People.

Clear the flowers from the window
And light candles for me.
Light me a thousand.  
So I may find my way home,
And we finally fall into
Each other.
Then light me another.

Use clear words.
Speak my language; I'm tired from
Bending my knees to
Hear. Show me that you'll listen,
Show me that you care
Enough to really
Listen.

I am bigger than you.  
I'll keep you safe
Until forever.  

As long as you dance with me;
Work with me; play with me.  
I'm clumsy and slow, might
Break everything
Except your
Heart.  

Light me a comet of candles,
An army of angels
To show that you
Want me there.

Light them all.
I have nights
To maneuver
Through.

I know your every scent by now.
The way you turn, scratch and sigh when
You can't sleep while I very well could
Would be something I'd miss if

Tomorrow saw us apart.
Still, when hands soft as your innermost
Find my weather worn shoulders and
Pull my face to your chest

As if trying to drown me in woman,
I smile against your full softness with
The juvenile intensity of a new born poet;
I will write on you with my mouth's skin.

If you kiss my eyes out, I'll still read
Our joined memories with my concrete-
Torn fingers; the scars we've loved onto
Each other, braille of yesterlust.

Animal carvings; knives and chisels of the
Absence of moral illusion.
In the instant between painful pleasure
And pain, I'll be more home with you

Than in any. Your pulse is ours.
Your moan is mine.
The sweat on your back always marries
That of my chest,

And when you want me to stop,
I'm about to. I'll look at your closed eyes
And wonder again and again and again
How to get you to take this forever.

She removed some clothes
So the hug would
Take.

The innocence was more intimate
Than ***.
Finally held, safe from enemies

On all fronts. I served my time
As a human shield,
If only

For seconds, as sharp claws
Let go and warm, caring hands
Didn't.

°

I'll be summer sandbox for you.
You be child for a while;
Rest as only kids can;

Lulled and safe, drifting away
To the sound of adults talking
Softly

So you'll sleep, despite the fever.
Warm with sofa, blanket,
And *little.

Watch your steps, little
Girl. You may be far away,

But when we
Speak I hear you're

Short of breath from
Running.

I am older than you; have
So much time.

You are a firefly. I am
A tree.

Let me come
To you.

Wish I could read every book
In this world.
Wish I could shake every hand
That hasn't harmed an other
Unjustly.

If only I could press that heart-
Shaped button for every poem
I read,
And inhale every poem of every
Poet that ever pressed one
Under any of mine.
And those of any that didn't.

I see gems with each scroll.
Bits of lives, heartbeats,
Some broken, some healing,
Some full of nothing but
Gratitude. Some filled with voids.
So many laughs. I wish I could
Share your every one
With you.

If I try to hold on to it all,
I'll lose my mind.
And track of my time.

I see poetry in every post.
Wish I could comment on them all.
Some I may not fully agree with,
But praise to all that write.

I have been gifted with so much
Response from so many.
I've tried to reply and thank
Each one,

But I am just one man.
A tired construction worker with
Band aids on every finger
At times.
Their tips hurt from sharp screws,
Hammer blows and rushed
Carving, then typing.
Head from digging in these
Second language parts
Of my simple Norwegian
Workman's brain.

Living a full, fantastic life.
One that I cherish
To write about.
To share. To express to myself,
And in the same breath
Anyone wanting to read.
I suppose we all carry some shade
Of that same feeling.
That's why we're here.
To share.

This site has been more than
Therapy to me.
It has been a home.
A sanctuary.

Some small, huge egos
Cry for fairness and attention,
Mouthing the three ugliest
Words I know:
What
About
Me?

But dark shapes in contrast
Create fulfilment within the art.
So what the hell, all balloons are
Mostly nothing but air. Anyway.

I hope I have inspired some.
I know I have made others feel
Neglected and unappreciated.
Well, it's a dance floor
Full of toes, and it's only human
To have a left leg or two.
Nothing's worth taking too
Seriously. I should know.
I have.

I'll still dance my heart out,
Laughing along with all others
That do. It's a Kindergarten
Universe. Play. Eat. Nap.

I thank you for every Follow.
Each and every Like and
Comment.
Every Collaboration.
Every Unfollow.
Every Block.
A full life is full of everything.

We are all single humans. Yet
Not one is here alone.
There's poetry dancing in
Your every
Movement.
There's life in every heart.

I love words.
I love life;
I love your every
Heart.

Raindrops raining rings
On coffee cup surface.
Too wet to care,
I remain seated on the slab
Of concrete

By the containers.
Oil and filth creep into fresh
Cuts and scratches.
I ignore my hands itching,
Drink and exhale.

I could be a millionaire
Throwing cash at the shadows of
My emptiness, or a holy man
Preparing for Tukdam with
Nothing but his robes to

His name. Anything but this
In-between existence devided
Between too much work and
Not enough free time or sleep.
What am I doing here, should

Be the last words they'd watch
Me think. The concrete won't
Answer. The coffee won't comfort
My restlessness.
But the rain replies:

You're living.
"And what are you doing here?"  
I counter.

*Raining.

She is as far from a morning
Person as her Volvo V70 is from

The speed limit as she drives me
To the riverside bus stop.

Leopard patterned one-piece
With little leopard ears on the

Hood, pilot Ray Bans covering
Eyes as red as her station wagon

And as narrow as her appreciation
Of my pre-5am sense of humour

When I giggle at how those little leopard
Ears bounce along with every

Bump in the road.

There's something in his
Eyes. That construction worker
With more dirt on him
Than the ground.

I recognize you, I say
To the reflection in the
Excavator window.
You look like the guy she

Fell in love with.
Not the one
She left.
Perhaps I should change

Back into him again, or
Just not. Me: Yet another thing
That wasn't broken until
I started fixing it.

Red eyes on the morning train
Heads bobbing
I ask myself
Why do we do this
To ourselves?

Then I withdraw
And smile with
Buddah

This too is
Poetry

She's had nose bleeds,
Stumach aches,
Dizzy spells and shortness of
Breath these last weeks or so,
And worry is a vampire attached
To my neck like the
Opposite of an IV; draining
Me, leaving me
With more than one of the
Same ailments.

At 38, I'm on six different kinds
Of daily medication. **** this
Stitched-up heart, with
Its moving
Parts of metal.
At 24, she doubles that.
Every piece of good news has a
...but... nailed to it like
Vinnie the Poo's friend Donkey's
Tail,

And I wish I was the healthy man
She deserves. One strong enough
To carry her bucket loads of
Tears, her chestfuls of well-
Earned bitterness. But I
Tapped out and went home
For the weekend. Recharging in
Countryside silence and solitude.
This is my docking station.
Superman and the sun.

*“In the unlikely event of a sudden
loss of cabin pressure, oxygen
masks will drop down from the
panel above your head. Secure
your own mask before helping
others.”

Sverre's morning-affirmation


I soar above my own boundless
Imagination
Looking down onto areas I visited
In dreams from as long ago
As my faintest childhood

I remember everything
This is myself seeing the
Sense in it all
It *all

I am large enough to eat
Universes
Strong enough to rip black holes
In the fabric of time and space
I laugh with the gods

I am the only
Border
I own the edge of everything
I am innermost and outermost

I know not how to
Talk down to
Myself

In all I see
In this world
I see me

Walking the gravel roads that my
Ancestors walked before me,
I feel the ghosts of their struggles
Beneath my feet.

But also their voices; laughter,
Infant legs running towards fathers
With shouldered axes and saws and
Smelling of forestry.  

Weary, but not too weary to pick up
A child for an afternoon embrace.
The trees still sing the songs they sang
Them to sleep with;

Bellies full of barley or not at all.
Despair and hardship, yes.
But more. The land remembers
Their lullabies.

She loses him every night.
He kisses her good-
Night and walks out into
-Then out of- the streetlight
And into the Out, and
She knows
It's to
Write.

Norwegian Autumn.
Black as voids.
Leafless trees.
Sunlessness. All
Slightly alien still,
After all these years in
A country you never
Grew up in.

My hand is a shield
Upon your Dark Season
Fatigue. Energy to spare.
Sharing fire. Here:
My coat is your blanket,
Scarf your pillow.
Sleep safe, little sister.
Summer is where the heart

Is.
I'll never lose you to
Winter, or his
Dark and windy sibling.
Ear to my chest, hear the
Ticking of time.
Ticking of time. Ticking of
Time until Love.

My palms on your
*******. Yesterday.
Things felt good then;
Kinda like love.

It's also called
Yesterday.
Today, I'm a whispered
*******.

Today I'm heavy air.
Render me hobby.
I have fewer feelings
Than a stone.

That's what you loved
About me. What you
Wanted to
Change.

You breathe music.

there's poetry
between your every
uttered word.

you own every room you
enter.
all is a shrine in your

honour.

I see paintings in the shapes of
your blood veins; ocean universes
in your tears.

when you cry, there's no fight.
just whispered discontentment,
comfort is the opposite of

argument.

you beautiful, little beast.
claws constantly concealed.
I kiss your paws.

see right through you.
love
it

all.

Yes, I still feel her breath against
My ear, as asleep as my
Arm that I
Will not need to move until she
Turns in a dream,

And I sink into my own.
Never again will that passing
Train throw
Blue light shadows on the
Ceiling above

My head where her smoke
Detector
Blinks its little, red light of
Reassurance.
Whiffs of lilac as I cross the

Street to her place
Where she is waiting.
All yesterdays, now.
The right songs still summon
Recap videos of our year-and-a-

Half in
Love behind my eyes.
Not choosing suffering,
I curl up underneath a warm
Blanket of what

Was; what can never
Truly be taken
Away.
And rest.
Sometimes something flowers

With such
Grace that its passing away
Simply cannot unfold as  
Any less graceful.
Ghandi shot in the chest, meeting

The Void whispering:
Ram, Ram, God's
Name, as if saying: "I'm coming,
Look, ma': No hands!"
No attachments.

Lovers no more, friends for life, 
Once sharers of
Intimacy and
Laughter, tears and everyday
Moments; little

Grains of gold.
Our own buried treasure
Where ex marks the spot, and the
Map is riding on
Kisses blowing with the

Scent of lilac and the sound of
Magpies chattering against  
Trains as if saying: "Just try, I'll
Take ya!"
Our attitude

In the nutshell they
Peck at with hungry
Beaks, leaving little traces like
Runes in powder snow.
To be nothing but grateful, even

For the days that could have been
Better. To miss her with a
Warm heart, content.
Wish her more happiness and
Security than I did even on

The days of
Our most intense affections.
Parting is part of Life, and
I'll remain at peace with
The parts both

Before and
After, until
My arm is
Forever asleep with the
Rest of me, resting.

She floated towards me.
An extention of a dream,  
The finger tip of God's
Downstretched hand.

My eyes wide open into
Bedroom darkness, as
If seeing something ghost
Yet so very, very not.

Hair flowing as if fading
Into the frame of
Night. Arms like wings over
Eggs; every piece of my

Heart in one warm nest.
Eyes like universes, skin
The glow of supernovas.
Smile as sincere as a

Mother's. Ænima. Soul-
Muse. The final force
Behind every poet's pen.
Nothing so penetratingly

Beautiful ever touched the
Iris of my inner eye. Never
Felt such embrace, as if safe
At last; knowing: In not too

Long, every drop of water on
Earth has been
Cried at least
Once.

Putting make-up on
the darkness.

Fever doesn't care.
She lands, tucks her wings
In and gently kisses
Beads onto the foreheads
Of children and soldiers
Alike.

I rest against a cool
Breeze, hard hat and hammer
On the concrete by my
Feet.
Back wet, muscles and joints
Ache.

I could feel sorry for
Myself, but find comfort in
The thought that somewhere
Out there,
A toddler's mother touches
Sleeping skin with a

Nervous wrist
And whispers
Into the room
Relieved.
*It's gone
Down.

Alone in her empty bed,
Hand upon his absence.

Terrified at the thought of
Him alone in his;

Enjoying the space and longing
For nothing.

Blue skies are ugly in the eyes
Of sadness,

Their emptiness relateable,
Loneliness sunburn.

She turns to the void.
To the beautiful trees;  

*Are you angry at
Me too?

For Erling


Eighteen years is nothing.
Even those that may pass
Between each time we
Meet over coffee
Are hummingbird heartbeats.

Such are the strings between
Brother hearts.
No room for discord;
Life never 'gets in the way', we
Just know:

The stars won't move an inch  
While we live. So let's just
Walk and watch them,  
Even be silent, and in that silence
Do all the catching up

We need:
These could be hurtful times,
But aren't.
As long as you can look up and
Smile at us all, I'm not

Going anywhere.

So the doctor said her foot
Was broken.
Yes, I like a woman tough,
But it's been two months
Since it started hurting.
Suppose few things are as
Subjective as pain.

I rub my right hand when it's
Cold. The one I crushed
Between two containers.
Crane driver was still
Drunk from breakfast;  
Suppose few things are as
Subjective as responsibility.

We're all scars. Broken bones
And bruised hearts.
Embarrasing memories and
Bitten bullets.
Walking on broken feet until
They heal.

Suppose few things are as
Subjective as
Growth.

I have loved to be alone  
My whole life.

Closed doors, phone on silent.
I have never known

Loneliness.

Log off your gadgets. Log onto Life.
Feel sunlight on your skin, smell the

Sea. Laugh with friends; no lol'ing.*
I agree. Life is for living.

But remember: With this handful of
Technology I can access the camera

On your phone; watch how the gentle
Breeze captures your hair in waves  

Half a world away, and say I love you,
And you hear it over there; smile...

****. Perhaps the future wasn't so
Bad after all.

The ocean knows.
Fill the world's largest container with it,
Or a shotglass. A thimble.
It will not care. It cannot care;

Nothing is ever removed

From anything.

I move away.
Every motion I make is
That of someone leaving.

I move away,
Like finished dancers; ploughs
Of birds heading to or from

Some paradise or not. I
Move away from excessive
Touching; such caresses turn

Desperate and demanding to
A man whose lovers are gentle
Mountain breezes and whispered

Songs of dry leaves hissing
Like the last breath of
A ancient artist seeing her

Masterpiece through closing  
Eyes; content and, like all things
Living should,

Embracing the dying a slow
Death that Life truly is, and
Knowing it's no place to stay.
Not staying.
Moving
Away.

This moment in time, about twelve
Years ago; a memory that keeps
Resurfacing these days.
I tell it over beers -not at all to brag-
To new friends and old
Aquaintances.
Self-employed, young and working
My hands to shreds to get by.
I had not eaten for days.

I'd drink litres of water
And bite my proud tongue every
Time I thought to ask my parents.
Again.
Already losing friends over debt,
I had exhausted all channels.
I'd keep my eyes on the street
Dreaming of coins.
Monday, nauseous with nothing
But myself to throw up.
In the barracks. Not a soul.
Fridge. I open it.
Boxes with lunches for thirty
Honest men. Wifemade leftovers.
Smell of homes.
I shut the fridge door.
On a shelf to my right,
A bag of buns long forgotten.
The mould only superficial.
Heaven underneath.

My eyes welled up as I ate.
I take no pride in managing to
Become that hungry
In a rich country during rich times.
But I will always remember
That I never touched
The boys' lunchboxes.

Teachers grow.
I love the way an
Adult now

Bends knees before
A speaking child
To

Look up
And
Listen.

If you hold a seashell
Against your ear,
You will hear a tic-toc
Within the knock of your own
Heart counting down by

Each beat being
Unfathomably fainter; you
Must
Write
Now.
Write for your life.

Silence is sin. Blank pages and
Clean walls around
The dwellings of your poetic
Powers; pure
Blasphemy.

Write, poet. Write for your life.
Counter every grain
Of sand passing, with
Words.
Write prose on the wind with
Your fingers to be carried into

The Archives of All. Write as if
Your death depends
On it. Express the beauty of
Our common insignificance,
And how we are still
Held above
Angels.

Write for your lives, flee
From slumber; awake.
There's lucidity here, unlike
Any seen through the haze of a
Dreamer's eyes.

You are the voice of the
Human Race, the last line of
Defence against
Robot lives
In a cold
Machine.

Write for our lives.
Write for your lives.

My concerns for us weigh
As much as the neurons
Firing the thought
Of
It.

Gang ****. wars. famines.
iPad screen a shield between
news of death
and your life.

around, around, around we
go, tripping over molehills,
ignoring mountains where
diamonds and silver

lay as common as dirt
at the top.
this train is heading in painful
directions, but it would

tickle too much if we stop.
so we don't.
I won't give up my wi-fi
to save every child in a village

I've never even heard of.  
we all say it. inaudibly.
too many of us aboard,
but the water is lovely.

would someone -anyone- please,
please rock
this
boat.

Above the crane,
A crow and a seagull.
Two-piece game of
Checkers
Over scraps.

A perfect end to perfect day.  
The sun has set, is on her way
To pleasure others; never stay.
We borrow every ray.

And once again the darkness
Flows, the breeze has turned a force that
Blows the day away, each creature  
Knows: An infant thunder grows.

I went to bed to catch some sleep,
But once again the skies do weep
And here, instead of slumber deep
Awake myself I keep  

To witness such magnificence,
As lightning's dance in radiance.
It draws for me omnipotence;
It awes my every sense.

So here I lie with cat on bed
Who doesn't even raise her head
When Tor throws hammer up
Ahead. Cares only that she's fed.

Such comfort I have found I find
In Nature seeming most unkind.
And nearly dizzyingly unwind
From daytime, now behind.

My eyes turn heavy to the sound
Of power unlike any found
Within the skies or on the ground.
I'm safe, there's gods around.

...is the easiest one to answer.
Cry a little.
Love a lot.
Be a little angry,
Then make peace and move on.

Only look back
To enjoy or to learn.
Kick a little.
Hug a lot.
Look for the little things;

There's a god in every detail,
That never demanded your
Faith in it.
Frown a little.
Laugh a lot.

Remember lovers lost
With kindness and gratitude.
Be critical of your memories;
Choose your luggage
With care.

Some things are worth forgetting.
Let them go.
Look a lot. Taste a lot.
Smell a lot.
Close your eyes and

Listen a lot, to your breath
And that of the world.  
There's a wonderful lack of
Sense that makes perfect sense,
In everything.

There's meaning in it all.
There's meaning in us all.
The meaning of Life?
To never, ever think you need to
Find it.