I was thirty-eight when for the first time

I did not get any gifts on Christmas.

I could not expect any, in the circumstances;

I was not sad; yet in slight melancholy and nostalgia

I had to reflect. A turning point in life.

I had passed through
one of the little crossroads of life.

31.01.2016

We need a new
Lenin in every country.

We may have to shoot them afterwards,

but we need them.

But no Stalin.

New Stalins need to be shot now.

29.01.2016

King Charles I on January 30th 1649

- or an ode to an axe

When a ruler's head doesn't bend,

it needs to be cut off.

28.01.2016

Ode to the October Revolution

The world

needs more

Jewish bolsheviks.

28.01.2016

A Dream

During last evening's hopeless sleep

I found myself holding brand new novels

by Jean Genet, hardbacks with

red, smooth cover papers.

I was, I noticed, in a library.

Why Jean Genet, I wondered, why now?

I woke, remembered the

library book I had lost,

its rough, brown-yellowish soft covers

holding inside the birth of a revolutionary spirit.

28.01.2016

Listening to Dowland,

drinking old coffee and lemon tea without sugar,

trying to read

a path through the hours of the night

between pale blue covers,

until a late red dawn sets snow on fire.

28.01.2016

Poetic was the death of Poe

Poetic was the death of Poe:

A slave at last

the supporter of slavery,

drink after drink down his throat

and a change of clothes,

taken to vote

again and again,

the sacrifice of the Great American Author

for a little political gain.

Poetic was the death of Poe.

28.01.2016

Ars Poetica Spatia

A poem without a message

is a scream in void.

A poet without a message

is a cosmonaut doing

a space-walk without a suit.

The former isn't heard,

the latter doesn't survive long-term.

Thirty seconds in the void

screaming and heart fails.

28.01.2016

To Michael McClure(1932-)

The only thing your cigarette was an emblem of

was and is the bloody cancer -

and your black lungs. Art

has no need for the devices of a suicide

to represent it, death in form of smoke

to creep inside, to worm its way into cells.

27.01.2016

Peter Orlovsky(1933-2010)

In a relationship of two poets

one has to be silent,

in the background,

the one who needs to be identified in photographs

showing them together.

As the work of the prominent partner

rises in quantity and appreciation,

in its shadow the poems of the other

grow few; one day

a young disciple of their partner

will ask from the loyal companion

"Do you write?" and

is answered "I did."

26.01.2016

Tomorrow will be gone,

yesterday wasn't here -

the human existence,

a thought between voids.

26.01.2016

16 & 22

Young lives lost in blood on muddy native soil,

"terrorists" scream the colonists who took photos while they died,

bled for forty minutes in the cold and the rain

while foreign medics proud of not treating the natives

were caring for their lightly injured fellows.

25.01.2016

from nothing to nothing

you are not

you are

you are not

so simple

but facing it

non-existence

you need to give

fear a good kicking

to keep it down

your loved ones

faced it

they are no more

you have to have

guts to accept it

the annihilation of self

the annihilation of being

24.01.2016

In the kitchen, lost in night time

Blood from the gums paints the

bottom of the kitchen sink red,

dark blood, iron deficient,

with those deformed red blood cells,

too few white blood cells

making from their part life what it is,

sleeping and being tired,

handful of pills keeping going

from nightmare to another one without dreams,

a fragment of death, void,

annihilating hours.

22.01.2016

A scene from Yemen after Saudi-Arabia's air-strike

Rag-dolls covered in plaster and dust,

painted with bright red here and there,

broken, blasted open skull or abdomen,

the fragile biological machinery stopped,

the mystery of consciousness ended.

Only death remains in the ruins.

22.01.2016

In the light of the reading lamp

On the bed, early Friday evening

and the black of winter night a wall behind every window,

water flowing to the sink in the kitchen

to keep the pipes from freezing and bursting,

and in 1944 New York rag-tag losers stumbling to murder

inside the yellow covers of the novel I'm reading.

I have no sympathy for Lucien Carr.

An awful killing, drowning a wounded victim,

makes sympathy impossible.

Somehow they are all lacking something essential

to humanity, these damaged people

rising to greatness in literature -

Burroughs, Ginsberg, Kerouac and the lot.

Somehow they could not see themselves,

hands bound, bleeding from chest wounds,

regaining consciousness in the cold, dirty river water

with trousers' pockets full of stones.

They failed there. Fuck you Lucien Carr, you little rat.

Fuck you and fuck your loyal friends.

22.01.2016

Michel Tournier(1924-2016)

At that age

your path's end

is a summit of loneliness

to rest on

to gaze at what

is behind

your life a landscape

being lost in mist

of distance and time

22.01.2016

Humans trying to become god-like

and god trying to become human,

missing each other somewhere between.

19.01.2016

A World Ending

Thoughts drift like snowflakes

in the pale, faded blue

arranged over this freezing day,

these anthills of homes

among snow and trees,

the concealed faces

on the slippery streets of ice;

the darkness before and

the darkness coming,

these lives slipping through

the cracks opening

everywhere you look.

A world ending

with no news of a coming birth.

19.01.2016

Finland 2016

The future, sold,

shall always be

worse now, the Golden Age

lost in old 80s photographs

and memories of youth.

But watch your daily dose of unreality TV,

read about how much cleavage

celebrities have shown yesterday,

remember to hate the refugees

and support joining NATO,

celebrate ice hockey victories

like they would give something to you,

be the sheep that votes

for their own slaughter.

19.01.2016

TO WISAM MARWAN QASWANI

Wisam Marwan Qaswani(1994 - 17 January 2016)

No headlines to you,

Wisam Marwan Qaswani,

unlike for the illegal Israeli settler

killed the day after you,

in the so-called 'Western' media.

The indigenous gets the silence,

the colonialist the clamour.

No headlines for the brick-maker boy

shot by someone who wanted to kill a human being

and no longer could control

the evil growing inside him or her.

They killed you, and they get away with it,

they get away with of letting you bleed to death

there on the ground of your own land,

your blood on the soil of your native land.

As the stream of innocent blood shed flows, 

the anger grows. Hate that makes the fingers

pull the trigger to kill brick-maker boys

makes steel find its way through soft flesh.

Blood calls forth more blood,

said Alcuin of York.

Hate calls forth more hate.

Death calls forth more death.

Your death calls forth more death,

Wisam Marwan Qaswani.

The hand that made its finger pull the trigger,

the mind that sent the order to the hand,

the human being, lost inside his or her uniform,

is a future killer of so many fellow Zionists.

19.01.2016

All for them

Start the long goodbye,

wave already

when you see them coming

just to make sure

it will be done,

seeing you in good spirit

will please them,

smile so that

it will be captured

in a photograph

when you still can smile.

Hug, when people

still dare to approach you,

when the "death

is a contagious disease"

thought hasn't taken over.

Give them a good

final moment

when the pain is still controllable,

and then,

enter between the white sheets on the bed,

allow the tubes to be inserted,

wait, while death stays with you

as they all go away

to life, abandoning you

to the final moment

when the disease is in control.

15.01.2016

AFTER THE DEATH OF THE STARMAN

To David Bowie(1947-2016)

We are dead now

the great secret is open

and our mouth can't talk

our lips frozen in that final expression

our tongue

a dead piece of meat

it's all locked inside

tunneling into the after-life

we fragment

into shrapnels of memories

11.01.2016

Of Time and the River of Life

On and on the river of life flows,

and we who emerged from it,

swimming against its current

for those fleeting moments of breathing,

we are bones in the embrace of time

on those shores which

the river will never flow past again.

10.01.2016