Ovi poetry

Unprescribed every day conditions
in addition to the dying wealthfare of the streets
and the fading shame of the mercy train,
left Jon in a slump of a stateless terrain.

Don’t worry, father state is here for you,
Danny had said but Danny was deaf
and things come out of his mouth
without the importance of listening.

So when Jon found motionless, Danny said,
I told him, father state is here for you
father state will take care of you.
Jon didn’t hear. He was frivolous with his hearing.

Later that night Danny looked for the doors
Jon has been sleeping lately, he didn’t hear anything,
Danny was deaf and the mercy train passed through his heart
leaving him in the rails of the homeless life and Jon’s absence.

Lily’s pot on the second floor,
wide window heavy yellow smoke curtains.
Years of weedy trips turned the place
into operatic phantom’s Parisian sewer,
all liquid images.

Lily never been to Paris,
liliums and lilies never travel the world
in cars and planes
but in weed spirit, thick boiling drops
in broken veins.

Lily was old, too young for the world
too aged for her life.
She was long left waterless
in a lagoon of weed,
poor substitute to her usual drops and love.

Lily, in bulb she born in bulb she went,
just like all the liliums of this world,
insignificantly lovelessly alone,
staring their torturous past
from a pot on the second floor.

You see people walking by,
plastic bags and artificial smiles,
a good day to buy.

You are a consumer,
one of those plastic bags,
your zodiac sign,
you sell what you got,
you buy what you can.

Not now though,
morninglights are to buy,
nightlights you only sell.
What you can.

Not age and beauty,
that has long gone,
sacrificed in the name of want.
Later for need.
Now to survive.

Survive another day,
survive another night,
survive more wants,
survive more needs.

Till the day comes
when people will see you,
another body in the entrance of the local mall
with no name and future
only a needle and a past
in a bottomless bottle,
your zodiac sign.

A good day to die!

From the killing fields, Thailand,
to dirty alleys, Malmö,
one way ticket, needle to vein.

Goodbye Frederick,
this life was not enough for you,
never treated you right.

Leaning on the rail he looked so small,
so tiny, so fragile, so dark;
a giant in life left with memories
packed in a minute case.

A defeated Bonaparte leaving the gates
of powerless Troy for Elba;
deceived by a cavalry of men on goats,
lied by a column of incompetent toads.

He looks back and all he sees is his own ruins,
his own mistakes, his own betrayals, his lies;
he glances sideways and all he doesn’t see
is the weeping sphinx and the shade of an obelisk.

He looks bow to see infinity haar unveil,
deaths gaze back on his untouchable stern;
he is an old man, he says to himself silently,
an emperor in his baroque plot of a thorn garden,

He smiles and he calls it
…his Austerlitz.

You shot,
I got the bullet,
you got the cut.

You laid there bleeding.
I stood here watching.

The bullet reached my brain, again.
My wits were shaking, again.
You were crying, again.

Please go.
Please stop.
You kill us both.
You do it drip after drip.

I helped you stand,
you held my arm,
you wanted affection,
I wanted kindness.

I pulled my heavy soul up,
you left an empty bottle drop.
You said I’m sorry
I nodded, I’m sorry too.

It’s all the same.
You shoot,
I get the bullet,
you get the cut.