For Drusilla
When stirred she howls, vomiting delirium with white foam on her pale poison lips. “Does it matter if you die if you never have been loved?” She giggles as she […]
Author Archives: Björn Rudberg (brudberg)
Is the butterfly to blame?
Can you blame the butterfly for fluttering? For being butterfly? Can you charge it for the hurricanes? In Puerto Rico the butterflies have drowned. In Houston all the pupae have […]
Ode to the paperclips
All that glisters is not gold— Often have you heard that told. The merchant of Venice, William Shakespeare This morning after bicycling I realized I brought to work a shirt […]
Nocturnal octet
I. Sleep is drinking tea in familiar surroundings; in a room with paintings from my mother’s home and the old piano where once I taught myself to play “Für Elise” […]
Anything but home
“This will do, it’s not home but it’s got a roof.” “How do we get in?” Jimmy knew the answer. He could climb. He could fight the grease and rats […]
Björn Rudbergs writings 