Calling kettle black
How come that sins are single slips of skin and not the iron fists of armored men? How come that honor comes from swords and not from words we carve […]
Untitled (waiting for metaphors)
The aged librarian collects ideals: he’s saving fragments, bulbs and seeds of scribbled shorthand, notes and antidotes. He shuffles words and stanzas tries to set them juxtaposed against his memory […]
Sharing Dinner
Saturday night; I meet Mike at closing time. She wears slippers, badge says Lucy, but we know her name is Kate. Her blouse is neat as always, grey hair pony-tailed. […]
You can always drown again
You stand there barefaced with your mica eyes, your hair a mess, you’re bored in aftermath of wasted wildness; your fingers claw for hypodermic bliss. Your lips in avarice sandpaper […]
Destruction of Atlantis
The aged librarian cannot reach the upper shelves where Plato hides. For yet a while his twilight lips knows by heart each metaphor, each parable. He can still sense Atlantis, […]
Björn Rudbergs writings 