Pickled summer
I pickled summer saving shimmered trance breeze of melt and green. I added moss rose musk our solstice dance, and heartbeat skips of moonstone lull. The jar (now twisted shut) […]
Author Archives: Björn Rudberg (brudberg)
Why leave the TV on?
Bottled up I’m jarred from inside tremors as from strings untuned. I’m screaming into empty space, I scribble words with watered ink. How come the mountains shroud themselves in fog? […]
To dress in pink
I dress myself in ways of gays, to separate perhaps, or maybe as a checkered bee to be unfit for fits of fists. “I don’t like football”, said not in […]
Arabian Nights
Before Aleppo, Baghdad and Damascus smelled Bazaar and spices, crimson carpet business sealed with coffee, neighbors said goodnight and never locked their doors. Before the alleys grew to borders I […]
Tipsy toes
On tipsy toes with lucid breath my eyes caress anemic flesh. “We have to leave today”, you say and as I bend my head to nod I see a sag […]
Björn Rudbergs writings 