The Seasons
are old-fashioned Carl Larsson rooms
for adults,
with their worried faces
and shattered blank bearings

The Seasons
are Bergmanesque scripts
in sultry Sodom settings,
archipelagoed with malignant melanomas,
adultery-infused, overrated, self-murdered

The Seasons
always come in a 1940's atmosphere;
motor yachts with shiny wooden decks
under the sun,
and a stifled Dagermanian postwar self doubt
in bolted garages

Autumn's genetically modified darkness
hides stinging fungi
and shabby hospital beds
in giant vacant-eyed TB sanatoriums
out in the pine forests

The darkness of autumn is a spherical captivity
'round stables & dwellings

Spring days present their bloodlessly faded
to each other,
recoiling behind unaccustomed eyes

The May sun accuses,
impossible to oppose;
the withered and squandered
laid bare
under the heavenly eye

Winter
is the only one
standing by its inhabitants,
stern & chilly, smiling grimly
from sunrise to dusk

Winter belongs to the stars,
galaxies sailing 'cross the celestial sphere
like the discuses of the Greek high culture;
high-born Nordic men & women
raging along the beautiful calligraphy of ski tracks,
the pagan sacrificial smoke of their breaths rising
over marshes and swamps;
Bob Dylan & Bach in iPod earphones

But in the empty halls of summer
the succession of days crumple up
an increasingly heavy anguish,'
brooding 'neath the clouds

Summers are sketchbooks for heavy thoughts
and solitary cuts
in throats & wrists

The roads wind warm into emptiness

The windows of insane asylums on bedrock
in pine forests
stand blind where the birds always fly away

Summer equals humanity's fall
deep into itself;
death hollow, covered with fumbling wasps

Inside bird-shrill, night-light marshlands
all things sink and gurgle off
into millennia of oblivion

The meaty dog day eyes of summer
never carry anybody's burdens

Summer weeks are pale, pimply, obese:
Death messages delivered by swifts
in sharp screeches at high speed

The roadsides are choking in feces
and bluebell chimes
in the heat

Summer is relentless and chubby,
takes whomever under its pretence,
to grind down

The summers are reeking with self-murderers,
kitchen waste growing in their oral cavities,
timid in the slavish discipline
of their deaths

The sensuality of the seasons
is thin as silk,
wraps up and does away with,
imperceptibly and efficient,
until everything is tied up and mute
in an ”away”
imploding into its singularity,
and then never was