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Mattias Forshage


 

 More or Less Trainpoems


 

 

BLIND
Vagrantís poem march 1999

Blind like a human
alive like a soap
in a warehouse with strange smells
where silent expeditions tiptoe round the corner
One wanders on a bed of beetles
as if they were glass
as if one already started bleeding everywhere
The expeditions burn round the corners
corrugated sheets beating in the wind
Frost break came surging
I was sleeping in a deep deep bed
with the shards of beetles rattling
dry flowers, dry clothes, dry mushrooms, dry mouth
small mornings were heaved all around
There was beating disquieting rustle in every bush
and every cloud was shining
as if one hadnít seen enough
Take the skin from my forehead
take my small eyes and spicy bandages
tidy the spring fires in the unlit gardens
where thrushes run like blood along the limbs

 


LIKE THIS NIGHT LIZARD
9/3 2002

The color of the area is white, you socialise with ghosts
The trees are sweating this night
and it rises as diffuse smoke reembracing them
There are small missings dancing around these trees
playing while everything is still possible
if we only donít believe weíre supposed to live for some time
Is that the anecdotal forest glade?
The song was sitting there, juggling with clarities and potatoes
and other candied objects hanging from the branches
and remarkable dragonflies
like everything that's billowing in this still air
for example like the ghostlike flesh of a human in this dew-wet grass
it contained all remarkable awakenings
If I am I will just sit and breathe these completed ruins
it would be for that reason that the constellations of stars are still deposited there
it was I who was surging over these grasscovered clay flatlands between moraine hills
pouring or creeping with the whole strength of my night, a big lizard
I managed to avoid the light circles from the street lights of the park paths
need to hurry to place the concluding parenthesis

 


PREHENSILE VIVARIUM SCENERY
for Merl Storr
April 2006

Gathering our thoughts in front of this vivarium
which may or may not be a slice of this special experience
if it triggers small white blotches awakens the side of the tongue none whatsoever
weíll all wear one of these vivaria on our heads but only one at a time it appears as each of them       contains an essential atmosphere
standing there for long periods working hard to spot the supposedly caged animal and suddenly the blotches right in front of you emerge as eyes with a weird intimate voice
a voice of decaying wood and humic acid, certainly not of limestone
if there was nothing moving above ground in that other vivarium you should stay around for the mass hatching of the fruit chafers
they will be buzzing metallically in strange orbits which appear to transect the trajectory of your skull
it is not morning everything just became luminous and more or less awake
the body in itself is an aquarium but itís difficult to tell what kind of container is needed for a ghost
and as usual it is difficult to tell the dead trees by the horizon from mounted dinosaur skeletons none whatsoever this is not an agricultural area
oh the voice of limestone is just another ghost
you canít climb the pile without a lizardlike lightness swiftness
most keep trampling through the glass panes, sometimes badly bleeding
it is certainly not the pile of cartons where you land when jumping from the roof
- and where strange love scenes between romantic poets are sometimes revealed -
that roof where all the shorebirds breed (one or two oystercatchers and the everpresent gulls surrounded us throughout the scene)
and these ghosts have other body parts than their magnificent voices too
who can tell if the frictionless love dance of lizards is an image of desire unbound more or less than the clumsy wrestling of these costumed poets
these uncostumed poets cutting themselves and constantly losing their balance
perhaps thatís the point, to wear all these strange atmospheres like bloodsoaked clusters of glass around oneís body parts
so weíll conclude that the body does not primarily consist of these different body parts finally revealed in individual watchcases piled upon each other, but rather their individual voices through intact or shattered panes or any liquid which runs throughout all of them Ė Iím not referring to all this blood, which is beautiful indeed but still a far simpler joy,  no it is the liquid of the voices of these ghosts, which may prove very irritant to your skin
but thatís not the point keep watching

 


WEATHER HEADS
rant november 2000

The same dreams are not the same dreams
Swimming strokes repeating themselves
Only the weathers move me
Only the weathers I repeat stubbornly
You humans only to the extent you are weathers

 


PORTABLE HEAD
Tegelbacken ("brick slope") quay, central Stockholm 26/7 2001
(some years later dedicated to Eric Bragg)

A small piece of meat, an envelope disenveloping
between these two electrical poles
after a quick cut according to the instruction folder
In it a few grains of gravel, a few overlayered dreams that itch and exist
A few matches to keep the wound open
A few seedlings and their root threads
It is not a female sex it is the secret of the journey
with the cockroaches rhinoceroses love letters
with the hotel rooms street violence quay edges
That which cannot be seen
The celebrating itself

 


IF I AM FLUVIAL
Train poem june 2004

If I am fluvial
if you had seen and if it fell asleep
if the falling stones put their tracks in your heroic chest and the sun stood low
it was being written all these old speeches on your small hands
if the sand allowed breathing at all who youíd been
as stagnant water as the populated forest
were my knife stab your knife stab
and the scene for an additional dirty affair
there was also this good feeling in the feet
to awaken hesitatingly become oneís enemy
to have dreamt and to be marten broken and hardwood forest
see the stream bed take shape when the weather threatens
when you become happy strained wolf and show your teeth

 


STERN BLUE
Train poem june 2004

stern blue torch corpse
rotting token in the stem
hopelessly gliding forward in ghostly voyage by sail
the beach hanging around our ears
torn into beautiful rags
the beach hanging around our wrists
if I am carried away by your defeatedness
and if we only never get there

 


THE SILVER BOAT
Vagrantīs poem june 2000

The silver boat stretched towards all these young mothers
and their erring channel trips and clouds of smoke
the peat industry and the beautiful shadow
the shadow of a pale red sunblind the shadow of an oak crown the shadow of the bourgeoisie (for the shadow of death was never a shadow)
but I blamed them for their body parts
and all the other unreal animals in the revealing light
(prominent, dying, they were advertising pillars for their sad persons and separated from that also for their equally sad lifestyles, only not their humans, because the human cannot be advertised)
Silver colored the bird death too
with so to speak wings in vain
in a world of ants and old fruit and a world of breastfeeding, cumulus clouds and gulls
the litter between the cobble stones and the litter waving by the quay
silver colored but not rainy
strange shortcuts through the shrubs
patient, oversensible, disappearing
with a surprised look at oneís own feet


 


 

 


 

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