Rain. Rain. Rain like
blood rages from tattered clouds. The blood of the sky, not red and sticky
and sweetsmelling. Crystalclear blood. Blood that plays against the plastic
roof of the veranda. Sorrowblood. The blood of missing. You are not here
and it rains. Clean, clean, clean, clean. Rinsing myself in skyblood. Washing
the green leaves and the green shelters. Sounding like a drummer concerto.
My blood. Warm and red? Or cold and blue. Like lumps of ice in my veins.
My blood. Cannot flow without being pumped. It stills. And clots. And becomes
cold and blue. Busting my arteries, my veins. Rainblood is the only thing
that keeps me going. It falls on my mutilated body that lies so still.
In the moisture in the grass. Lies so still. Unnaturally still. The blood
washes over me. Trickles like a thousand soft caresses. Turns my still
blue blood into green and viscid - but living. I'm still alive. Thanks
to the bloodgiving of clouds. The grass gives me vital force - even if
flickering. The grass that smells good and rinsed anew. Like tea-leaves
in my turquois mug. Ceylon tea washes through my green blood, pumping it
around. Yet I live and look with green eyes on the skyblood that washes
the stones. Yet I live and see the trees rise in welcoming and pleasure
at the rain's wary caresses. A thousand love stories well hidden in my
garden. Still I long for orangecoloured flames that burn me. I long for
my warm, red blood my warm, red body. The cold is swept around me like
a quilt when you are not here. The skyblood is barely able to keep me afoot.
Preferably I'd lie lifeless until you come. So come.
GJ-97, authorised schizofrenic
magician
In
Swedish
In 1997 I was on the top of my expressionism.
This I wrote under the pseudonym "authorised schizofrenic magician" (auktoriserad
schizofren magiker, originally) together with some other texts that will
be coming up as soon as I have the time to translate them (and find them!).
They were published on the "youth page" in our daily newspaper. I saw them
as "poetry written in prose" and was very proud. I was prepared to be flooded
with comments. There were none. ;-) Well, I got a letter from a 17-year-old
who wrote about her love for the ocean. Anyway, I sort of like them...
back to crocus.