Postcard from the coast
(these notes were found on a collection of ancient postcards, the author is unknown but there are those who have seen a bent man walking into the waves without a […]
Category Archives: Real Toads
Serpent in my bed
The dry snake slithers slowly, skales caressing my skin the tender weight of its body moves slowly closer closer to my groin with a forked-tongue tickling. I feel the cold […]
What’s the color of peace?
It must be a color less like the soil not ochre, sienna or brown reminding of trenches or graves; it cannot be red as the rage of revenge, the color […]
This is what I mean when I talk about roses
It’s neither the sun nor the waves, neither mountains nor forests. It’s not the boughs of our oak in summer, when laden with leaves. It’s neither the nightingale’s song nor […]
When death came to town
When Death come to town she claimed our flesh by selling us dust; whiter than pale as the twilight her poisonous kiss of nuclear mushrooms and alpha-decay. When Death came […]
Björn Rudbergs writings 