Acorn
Home is like your fist, an acorn waiting to spring root. Home is not your prison of convention, nor a migrant’s shelter, it’s neither pillow nor the pavement. Home is […]
Category Archives: Real Toads
Cataract
He built his home with ink on paper, his world was walled with words. And with myopic eyes he gardened in the soil of sagging shelves, he sowed with books […]
Making love on battlefields
Less from the ghosts than from a kiss you lost on me, the cemetery comes to life. It’s warm with cluster bombs. It thaws the blue of lips and melts […]
Frying eggs
Destiny to many old, too young, the only fold, a manifold, a crease, a cringe disease; this plague’s a blessing of our stolen cars when tarmac’s burnin’ sunbeamed hot. What’s […]
Saturday morning
Your voice tastes saffron, cardamom and green, as you whisper secrets in your sleep. I dreamed of strawberries but at the break of dawn your eyes were symphonies, a taste […]
Björn Rudbergs writings 