My mind is tired at times,
fragmented, dusty, frail like a wasp's nest,
death-wishy,
worried about money,
the state of computers,
and the afterlife
of the words/worlds I've arranged
on paper, hard drives and usb:s
- as well as the mindless mindfulness
spent on my back on shakti-mats

I'm un-worried only about the happy physical strain
of bicycle training,
ski rides
and steep climbs up screes

I'm posing as a bedroomer, screen-huncher,
a scree riser and a road rager

I'm lifelong, I know that,
and in the words of Gaston Bachelard
in La poétique de l'space (1958),
soon in ”the great domain of the undated past”

We, the people, constitute the biggest hoax possible;
sacks of organs
bubbling & wheezing;
meat & blood & hormones & tiny bursts of electricity,
pretending to be spiritual ”beings”
with individuality, personality & worth,
though simply no more than matter in skin containers;
uncleanliness marching the streets,
amassing in graves,
anxiety filling up each little crack

Sune says he's a cripple,
Sture that he's an old fogey,
but I don't know what to call myself,
rising up the white staircase in Niemisel,
a mug of coffee and a few words
at the end of the line