I don’t know if I’m depressed enough
to write real poetry
early mornings in November I scrape
the frost off the car
I carry home grocery bags from ICA
I don’t actually read Gunnar Ekelöf
or Rimbaud
I think most poets are boring
I don’t know if I always
understand what I read
if I’m depressed enough
to understand what I read
I probably don’t suffer enough
to write real poetry
I’m just a blue gnome
living underground
and sometimes I come to the surface
and smoke a cigar, walk among people
and talk for a while
then I return to my own
to weekdays in November
to the cat
to the forests and the vast distances
and the river that runs through my house
the cold calm river
that runs through my house
when they are all
fucking gone

 
_______________________


I sometimes think
of Cascais
I used to go there
in the summers
I used to sit on the balcony
with a cup of coffee
and read the newspaper
on my phone
while there were already people
going to the beach on the streets below
at night I would sometimes go to the
strip clubs
there was this dancer from Spain
her name was Maria and she had a
ring in her nose
one night after closing
we went to her room
in a basement that she
rented from an old lady
we smoked pot and fucked all night
then at six in the morning
I walked through town
while the sun was rising
while I could still
feel her sweat on my body
and I still think of that night
sometimes
while I live
in this morgue called Sweden
and I wonder
what the fuck I’m still
doing here
and sometimes I get afraid
that I'm already dead
but that I just don’t
know about it