Time is just a granpa clock with fishes instead of hands

Ok. I was listening to Placebo and this just flowed out of my hands. It's not lyrics, it's just a mental image in my head. And seriously guys I know it's mock week but who cares right? They're only mocking us. Writing is so much more important. I feel like I'm spamming this place so please someone else be a little creative... :p

*

There is a door. I know I must open the door. Running slow steps like immersed in water. Reaching out. There is no one to hold my hand. No one to comfort me. There is a door in empty space. And there is an old clock, like the one grandma had. But it's mute, not loud like hers. Immersed in water. Fish swim where the hands would be. They are blind. I am not. I reach out. Empty space. And no one can take my place. I am running. The door is keeping its distance. This is not a dream. This is where I am. It is not a metaphor and it is not an existentialistic riddle. It is empty space. And a door. And a clock with fishes. The glass is cracking. The fishes will die if it does. The door is not cracking, I will do if it does. There is a doorknob that looks like an eye. It's burning now, flames in its large, adamant pupil. Is this the deal. Running? If I only could reach. But there is no one to take my place. The fishes are swimming, a sign of time passing. If they weren't blind they would love their magnificent colors. They would be having a rave party. Right there in the old clock with no hands. No hands are reaching for me. This is not a dream. And that scares me. Because dreams end when they come true, when they become reality. Dreams will always end. And maybe a nightmare will take its place. You never know. Time make you forget, makes you pretend like you have more. Like you don't know, like you were having a bad dream and now its over. And then it isn't. Pretending. I keep thinking someone will come and save me. But who can save me from myself? Running. Reaching. Watching with wide eyes. Eyes wide shut. There is nothing new. Nothing new under the burning eye. This is reality. This is the deal. Not asking any questions. Forget. Leave behind. Die.

Lågstadievänligt.

Syftar på glassen. And I was neither hungover nor high when I wrote this, I just discovered how much I love "If.." poems. Because they are so silly and easy. And stupid. And I apologize in advance för de pornografiska inslagen. I hope you don't mind, but the warning is here so if you don't want to read it, don't read on. And yes, it is supposed to create a "wtf" reaction.



If I had a heart
I would buy you an ice cream,
my dear
My mouth
is on your dick trying to satisfy
But your heart will not melt
Like the ice creams I buy,
my heroin


*


And I drink more than ever
Happy, confused, but alone
And I was talking about you today
And I drink more than ever
But there is not much left to say
The lies are comforting
And I drink more than ever
Happy, confused, but alone


*


If my thoughts were a playground
It would murder children
If your lungs were mine
I would breathe in nitrous oxide
If ice cream was free
I wouldn’t be here now

Speaking of machines...

Maskinen's nya och en öl
dansar tills vi dör på golvet
dricka hela dagen, leka hela kvällen
Maskinen's nya och en öl
först nästa morron som den kommer - smällen
fjortisar som slavar för kvällens rytm,
Maskinen's nya och en öl
- vi dansar tills vi dör på golvet.


Om ni är intresserade av versmåttet så är det en "triolett". Google it or something, but i fell in love with it the first time I saw it. Och Maskinen's nya låt "Segertåget" är faktiskt väldigt bra. In a fjortis-kinda way. Party on people!!

fire + horizons + machines

Colours - haven't seen much of them [text + .jpg form] around here in a good while.

But: [here] + [now] --> I bring you:
^strange machines sleeping under a sky beautiful on fire^

and the same ^memories of the^ same stupid ^sea^ as always.

hi,
pottery-blog.

(You [srsly] need more blue(s).)

Fallande fjäril

Edit: Skrivit om dikten lite nu för att ha en mer genomgående struktur

Kristina började prata om nattfjärilar med svedda vingar i "Doktor Glas" på svenskan, och sen fick jag inte gjort vad jag skulle på lektionen ;)

Nattfjärilsvingar
Sig uppåt tvingar
Upp mot ljus
I ett väldigt rus

Av allt det hopp
Som ryms i en fjärilskropp
Värms en frusen kind
I nattens vind

Men då fjärilen känner
Hur värmen bränner
Faller den så
Med brända vingar små

Mot skärvor av drömmar
Genom virvlande strömmar,
Där mörkret griper tag
Om svaga små vingslag

Och med vingarna utbredda,
Fastän halvt bortsvedda
Fjärilen sakta dalar ner
För att aldrig flyga mer

På marken ligger sen
Ett vingpar som aldrig slår igen;
En bruten fjärilskropp;
Ett slocknat sinne med ett slocknat hopp

IB life

TOK, CAS, abbreviations we all hate
Medicine and law school that’s our fate
grades are never good enough, must get 45 points
Don’t care if we’re stoned on caffeine or joints
We come to school regardless if our nose is stuffed
Longing for the weekend where we’ll be all puffed
We’re all an image of perfection
Never mind the lack of affection
We’re better than all the rest
Receive a seven on our test
We believe we are better than love and a social life
“You won’t laugh when I have a Ph D and a hot wife”
Must speak English, Swedish is a drag
I would never allow myself a fag
Exams are our holy goal
To fail will be a black hole
Better study my ass of every day
To gain all sweet sevens in may
Social events? Hell no, I’ll study!
And survive with my IB buddy



Yeah, sarcasm if people don't get my sense of humour:P

Hur faller man vackert?

Hur faller man vackert, med händer utsträckta mot morgondagen?
Hur faller man vackert i kaos och strid?
Hur faller man vackert när den chans ej är tagen
Som leder till en inre frid?

Hur faller man vackert när man desperat vill hålla kvar?
Hur faller man vackert då sorgen tränger på?
Hur faller man vackert om man ännu väntar svar,
Ja, hur faller man vackert då?

Hur faller man vackert ifrån det trygga jaget?
Hur faller man vackert när man faller från vad vackert är?
Hur faller man vackert överhuvudtaget,
In i en än vackrare sfär?

Solo.

Who guards the guardians,
who rules the gods;
Who repents what's evil,
who sets the odds?
Who marks the marked,
Who blesses the meek;
Who gives voice to the lark,
who protects the weak?
Who reads the writ,
who gave birth to the wit;
who holds my back,
and says when to relax?

Delusion of Teenage Love

Exotic and wild
I was merely a child
Filled with the suspense of forbidden fruit
Kisses, passion, the urge of a young brute
‘Give me just one sacred chance
I’ll take you to Madrid and France’Mc Donalds, movies, parties – an ordinary teenage life
Trip to Dubai? To young to become anybody’s wife
One chance – two, three, four, five
Silence, not knowing if you’re alive
Back again, asking smoothely: ‘What’s your puff?’
No wonder you accessorize with a handcuff
‘Walk the street and earn some money,
Even as the town’s whore I’ll call you Honey’
Admiration, sensation, temptation
I must have suffered from aberration
Just one one step away
Everything will be astray
‘Welcome to the life of Crime and Punishment’
I functioned as your own personal adornment
Finally it’s time for the perfect end
And time to find someone else to tend