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tirsdag 20. februar 2024
The Ballad of Belmore Gaol
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fredag 5. januar 2024
Diplomacy: The Art
of doing nothing at all – an anti-Semitic poem
We all want
Peace,
Peace of
mind,
Peace in
our time,
Peace for
the benefit of humankind.
At Peace
with nature,
A beautiful
Peace,
A peaceful
life,
And a
peaceful death.
Our elected
leaders, also want Peace:
The Peace
of the cemetery.
To be left
in Peace to allow unhindered, the wind of murder that passes over Palestine.
To silently
condone the oppression, the abuse, the exploitation, the crushing and repeated
expulsion of the children and grandchildren of Nakba.
Silencing
the coming generation to a noiseless death beneath the ruins of Gaza.
The stones
are crying, their dust-stained tears trickling in small rivulets through the
ruins of Gaza’s cities.
They reveal,
the small, crippled hand of a dead child, encrusted in grey colourless dust,
pointing aimlessly at the sky from beneath the ruble of Gaza City.
Like the
carved stone hand of a renaissance statue waiting for a helping hand that came
too late.
Barth Eide
and Gahr Støre are worried.
Worried
about the excessive civilian casualties,
Worried
about the spread of the conflict throughout the Middle East,
Worried
about terrorism coming to our Peace-loving land,
Diplomacy
is their potent weapon.
“one must
not shy away from criticizing countries, just because they are our allies” Says
Barth Eide. And goes on to praise the USA for not vetoing a resolution that
does not call for a ceasefire.
He feels,
that “it is going too far to call Israels murder of over 22 000 civilians,
Forced
relocation of 2 million Palestinians,
Cutting off
supplies of water, food and energy, in a Medieval siege,
and raising
all the cities of Gaza to the ground,
For a
genocide.
Indeed,
diplomacy is a potent weapon in such hypocritical hands as those of our
esteemed Foreign Minister.
Tell us
again, Barth Eide, how Norway is among the most vocal western countries in
condemning, this “Non-Genocide.”
Tell us how
you broke diplomatic relations with the “Non-Genocidal” Israeli government,
Tell how
you openly condemned Stone-Face Biden for “Non-vetoing” a ceasefire,
Tell us how
you loudly refused to participate in his Red Sea maritime force, to ensure that
ships could continue supplying the cruel ongoing “Non-genocide”,
Tell us how
you manipulatively sabotaged the recognition of a “Non-Palestinian” state,
Tell us how
many children’s lives your “doing the most we can” has saved.
And then listen
as your empty words echo and rebound across the Nordic granite mountains.
They do not
go unheard:
In Adolf
Fredrik's cemetery, the earth moves upon a grave, the wet soil erupts in a
frenzied wave of torment, and a skeletal hand emerges, its muddied finger
pointing to the sky.
And the
trembling voice of the ghost of Olaf Palme rents the midnight air “J’Accuse!”
Biden/Blinken,
Go to Hell!
Palestine
will rise again.
Barth
Eide/Gahr Støre, get off your arses, get off your knees!
Palestine
will be free!
onsdag 16. februar 2022
A Poem of sorts, to the medieval warmongers who decieve their fellow citizens in the service of a foreign power!
lørdag 5. november 2016
A history of lies, deceit and broken treaties,
500 years of war against the Indian nation,
This was the white man’s gift of civilization.
The savages saved from their pagan destitution,
Their children re-educated, their culture defiled,
Their traditions commercialized or merely reviled.
With wounded hearts on broken knees,
Still standing up, at Standing Rock,
Across the wide Missouri.
No Declaration of Independence, No land of the free,
No American dream, or manifest destiny,
For the Sioux, Navaho, Apache and Cherokee.
Stolen lands and stolen bison,
Reservations for cultural assassination,
Buffalo Warriors in a stolen nation.
With wounded hearts on broken knees,
Still standing up, at Standing Rock,
Across the wide Missouri.
Riot police with their gnashing hounds,
National Guard, rubber bullets, tear gas,
Against protectors of mother earth and their ancestral past.
The pipelines come first, the environment can wait,
People mean nothing when Oil is at stake,
From Amazonas to Dakota, Lofoten to Maracaibo lake.
With wounded hearts on broken knees,
Still standing up, at Standing Rock,
Across the wide Missouri.
tirsdag 9. august 2011
Sweet Sixteen
Already the sheer velocity and air resistance began to deform its shape
As it sped mercilessly on towards its victim,
In agonizing slow motion.
The fraction of a second that life is suspended
In a predetermined anticipation of its own termination.
The bullet struck the tender, oh so pretty, delicate white skin,
ripping it to shreds,
Tore through flesh and exploded with merciless design.
Tearing organs, shattering bone and giving such excruciating, shearing pain.
Fear, emptiness and oh, so all alone,
The victim felt her life ebbing slowly from her body.
Her warm blood soaking into the cold, wet earth of Utøya.
BASTARD SIV JENSEN!!
BASTARD FREMSKRITTSPARTI!!
BASTARDS ALL THE MONGERS OF HATE AND DIVISION!!!!
lørdag 19. februar 2011
The Day My Heart Stopped Beating
The day my heart stopped beating
This week I lost a day of my life.
Gone, a whole day, not there, nonexistent.
No tunnel of light, no angels, no floating above looking down.
Just gone, not there.
Almost echoing Epicurus;
"So death, the most dreaded of evils, is nothing to us,
because when we exist, death is not present,
and when death is present, we do not exist."
.
But I returned, resurected....hardly!
Just came back, minus one day.
Patched together information,
Enough to partially fill the gap:
Two ambulances and a helicopter,
The heroic efforts of a car body repair workshop employee
to hold life in me.
The cardioshock treatment and the hospital emergency team.
.
Life hangs by a slender thread,
Luck, chance, situation; though hardly fate,
Decides the outcome.
I lost one day, it could have been all days.
Now I must cherish those remaining.
I’ve learned at least what not being there entails:
It entails not being there.
I’m here now, lets go on.......
torsdag 6. januar 2011
Luis builds a shrine to Marylyn Monroe
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Luis builds a shrine to Marylyn Monroe
(or: “Every man walks his own way” Suriname Jensen)
A crazy chase at the Spanish Pension.
Jensen with a pistol, Luis with the look of death and pervasive feminine anguish.
A pink blur transmutated from the staircase, through my opened door and materialised on the edge of my bed, visibly shaking with fear.
“I'll kill that pervert! That fucking Austrian homo!” roared Jensen, as he appeared pistol in hand at the top of the stairs.
A broom stood at the entrance, an impulse made me pick it up and place it diagonally across the door to bar the way.
I couldn't believe it...........
I began to talk rapidly about Jensen’s favourite subject, philosophy. At least that is how he himself would describe it. He would write down what he considered great philosophical observations on bits of paper and pin them to the kitchen wall. His latest, and the one he considered probably the deepest observation of his life, read; "Every man walks his own way."
This, I discovered, was the worst thing I could have said. As it so happened his piece of paper with these illuminating words, hanging on the wall over the kitchen table, had been given a slight, though as it would now seem, fatal addition. Someone had added a sentence. The philosophical text now read; "Every man walks his own way. Especially Luis!" alluding to the feminine way Luis wiggled his buttocks to ensure that nobody mistook his sexual preferences.
Jensen, it transpired, thought that Luis had defaced his words of wisdom.
It had in fact been me!
But in the end, as it seemed the only way to be quit his persistent bickering, I consented to visit his sect.
*****
"My friend, you have such deep and understanding eyes. Surely you have met with the Lord at some stage in your life…….. I feel an intelligent and searching mind is with us today…….. I sense a little doubt also, am I right? Don't be afraid, open up. Share your doubts with us.........”
I rose up, kicked my chair as hard as I could to the floor, and with the maximum aire of contempt that I could muster, stormed out of the room. Luis ran after me, hanging on to my shirtsleeve in a futile effort to hinder my departure. Pleading that I didn't understand, that they were sincere and that I must give them another chance. "Bollocks!" I repeated as I reached the door and walked rapidly into the street.
There was a knock on the door. I opened it and Luis, looking emaciated and thoroughly unwell, entered the room. “Can you lend me some money,” he asked in his squeaky voice.
"Why? What’s up? You look really bad."
The story unfolded.......................
But in the divine sphere of faith and redemption, the murky, soiled vices of earthly temptation are only thinly kept at bay. One evening, as Luis washed the dishes, the leader of the sect, who had stayed behind after the faithful had departed, approached him from behind. The devils hand was at work!
The shrine was complete, the ceremony could begin.
*****