its December
and almost ten degrees
blackbirds and robins
are singing
believing its already spring
but its mid December
and Im not really
feeling it
give me back
the cold nights and the frozen
streets of the city
I am not ready for
spring yet
the birds can come back later
and drink wine in my living room
and fuck with my head
as they always have
and always will
when the light comes back
and makes everything
new again

**

I sat in the winter light
and read The last poems
by Peter Lindforss
and I was happy cause he was
a fucking good poet
but a little sad
that I can’t write like him
then I thought about how
he died
homeless and alcoholic
outside a church in Stockholm
and I wondered if his poetry
was an angel
or a guillotine
that finaly got him  
maybe it
doesnt really matter
what it was
the heart has its ways
and theres really
nothing more
to say about it

**

fuck the trees
fuck the birds
fuck the streets
fuck the neighbours
fuck the clouds
fuck the newspapers
fuck the dogs
fuck me
and fuck this poem
i guess