Catcher In The Rye

I know a place
where cats come to die
would you like to see it? I asked
he said, no I wouldn't

it’s innocent and distinct
it’s clear and untouched
would you like to see it? I asked
he answered: no - I wouldn't

he said it in a way
that left me with no other choice than to turn
away from him
from this point on
I’m slowly
approaching the exit

My Fathers Watch

my father died when I was three
I was digging through his drawers
where my mother kept his things
wanting to find a treasure

something that would bring him back to me
everyday secretly
but all I found was an old calendar
three Solidarity badges and a golden Swiss watch

he used to wear this watch on every photograph
Rome, the Alps, the Northern sea
death left nothing of him to me
except courage

I buried the watch until it was out of sight
sand earth dust my heart
Thinking: morbid to hold on to
Death

no end, not even physical
I look at the sea in peace
meaningful meaningless
insignificant indifference

and the sea and sand that has seen it all

On Being

half-baked men
loyal to their self-preserving obsessions
make me want to kill myself
50 years of solidity

only those defeated
hear their souls crying clearly

the rest keep humming to an old rhythm
moving further away from the beat
the silver bearded dreamers who dare not dream
never quite fool themselves

I once knew Clyde
when he was an honest man

On Every Street

every street includes his name
my lovers favorite colour and
a short description of the absorbing
movement of smoke rising passionately
above his dark eyebrows
he puffs away expressing his inner-life
in a small unglamorous kitchen
somewhere in suburbia

from the dusky setting
the hidden, the undercover, the invisible
the swinging waves of his subconscious
comes the knowledge we would
most definitely hear his voice again
plop fell drops of humid air on the mahogany
table surface before freezing into snowflakes

Humphrey you were a farce
but a damn good one

A Poet In Exile

he touched peoples souls
and sang songs in their native language
he was a fellow country man
a poet in exile

everyone reached out to speak to his enigma
but he was not human
and didn't indulge in the brutal
pleasures of everyday life

for him everything was poetry
and poetry was his country
he was a words smith
a master of atmospheric expression

he did not need truth
as he had seen it and wept
the poet
and the cherished song of his longing

Review

I read your book Andrew Harlow
indeed your name is not special
and you bear no resemblance to anyone
of any major significance
sorry I had to mention that

every page made me feel cold inside
and if human relations were
robotic signals sent by machines
you would be my hero
writing is actually about getting under the surface
not recommending cigarette brands
to anonymous web-users

Andrew listed a few amazing authors from the renaissance
he looked this up in the general encyclopedia
and felt content
his discoveries matched exactly the description given
in the review

I felt like writing another letter to Andrew
explaining he had made a mistake
it wasn’t Hemingway or the less known Steinbeck
or any other writers from the beginning of the 20th century
his work imitated
in fact
this comparison could be regarded as an insult

I felt embarrassed after making all these remarks
even if they were made in good faith
who was I to judge
I hadn’t even published a book
or any big stories like that
perhaps I should look up to someone that had
or was that just a matter of taste

Curse

my shopping list is always the same
the same stuff everyday
apples, tomatoes and milk sometimes butter
the milk
I’ve been told to be careful with
it’s my
intolerance
no one ever mentions wine
I add that myself

been so quite here
you would think the
world has stopped
which would be extremely unfortunate

anyway…
back to the shopping
the only legitimate reason why
we’re still here

sometimes I buy exactly
what’s on the list
other times more than I need
which usually means I end up
throwing half of it
never mind

what’s the point of planning
beyond the belief that we have financial control
life
runs
it’s own course

it’s more the curse
that frightens me
the curse of the rotten
apples