"Down which hill did a small child roll?"
The left, or the right?
"I think the tall.. or
the one in the fold?"

It had rolled with mirth
down the rubbles and dirt.
It did roll with bliss
through the dangerous bits

Finnaly it came to an end
it hit the small cabin by
the werewolves den
in the midnight's suppertime
Of frightened hipphopotemous.

Poem: Entiteld: This is not a strawberry.
Gravy on my hands.
Gravy on my feet.
Gravy meats the body.
Gravy thorugh the heat.
My hands are coverd,
in gravyiouse delight.
My hands are coverd,
don't be quick to firght.
Gravy gravy
on my toes,
Gravy Gravy.
Where it goes..
hands and gravy, everywhere.
Gravy is, in gravys hair.
Gravy gravy, like the murky depths
Gravy on my hands so wet.
From gravy, not sauce nor pepermint.
No sailors in my garden tent.
Gravy on this poem spill.
Gravy from my hands to nil.
Naught, or whatever you wish.
Gravy is top 'o' the list.
Hands come second, hands come first.
Gravy coverd, eternal thirst.
Etheral mist, the hands of time
Turn and twist, the gravys vine.
Eat it on a silver platter.
Eat it off a burger, splatterd.
Use it as a topping, on your food of choice.
Gravy is the masters voice.
Gravy from a plastic tube.
Squuezeed by skinny hands (so few..)
Liters , Galons, Tones and more.
Gravy comes , in many forms.
By hand or by maschine,
Gravy comes like molten stream.
Of lava or, another thing,
palm trees swinning, in the wind.
Cats are here, they always are.
I think they eat gravy.
but I havent seen thus far.
Gravy comes and gravy goes
but altogether, no one knows.
Gravy through my hands.
Gravy through my feet
Gravy meats the body.
Gravy Through the Heat.

~Fin~

What does the Moon care what I write of it?
Such a flight of fancy never to be told.
The stars take no heed to inspiration
even though they are a neverending source.

What power has the mist and the cold?
Over our feeble mortal souls?
we make for quiet bedlam
haughty in our superfluousness

so what if all leaves crumble and die?
is that meaningful somehow?
or is it a whisper of the breeze
Comfortable and eerie.

does it matter, that matter,
energy coexist free
when at once they are annihilated
as dreams upon rising?

is it true
when one can not be certain
if it is safe
when one can not be there?

can you believe
with illusion
and a shadow glance
as your only guiding milestone?

know that height and measurment
at the apex of understanding
cannot tell a tale
of a forgotten heart

and if the snow should fall, sour, graceless,
and we will give up hope,
would it be wasteful to say
that we were loved the most?

Not longlasting the memory of us and ours.
Of trials and tribulations.
Thousands past and thousands future
with uncertainty in the moonlight.

So what does the moon care what I write of it?
Even if it isn't anything, I still find it beautiful.

Description

Describe it?
Impossible
You wern't there...

how could you see
the way hair shifted
the way voices trembled

how could you notice
the cracks in the wall
the way my heart sings now

When memory is drawn
and plays yet again ?

Everyday.

the cavern of my stomache
craves
brave sacrifices from
tribes of helpless delicatessen

it appears
my toes feast on rubble
that lodges obnoxiously
in the vast recesses of my shoe

my auditory organs
require music, both
beautiful
and i'll-gotten

and my lungs could go well without
any smoke you wish to throw at me
if smoke
could indeed be thrown

My fingers paint
helplessly with the aid of pencil
caricature, when they are
supposed to be taking notes

My brain ignores all this
it tends to other matters
and my soul flies free
as it dreams.

--- Untitled ---

It is at times like these I wish you people knew Swedish, for whilst I do not write many poems im my native tongue, this is one of those rare ones. I have however done my best to translate it, but alas, as it is with translation, it has lost something present in the original.
 Beautiful the snow
World covering grace
Sweet is the air
lacking in hydrogen

Wonderful, that sun
warming the north
And in the by warming
all living creatures

Lively that spring
that never arives
Hindered by winter
it's jealous neighour

Fantastic is language
ever changing
Forever clashing (with
the) teenage monster

Whacky is life
hopeless and hopeful
A whisper from the Deity
that brought us to life

Unquenchable yearning
Memories of yesteryear
Leaves with us
experience

Dances and Playtime
bring us closer
the ancient we seek
and try to embrace

Us belongs the world
though slithery, stuborn
one that never gives up
to our benefit
motivating excitable
creating body

We are the same
We always have been
Our senses bound
at the side of our faith.
--- Alderach, 20/03/2006 --- 

under a most cold surface
dwells a soul
without bitternes
altough misery is it's only
source of sustenance
it does well enough
to one day flourish
and fill the once beating heart.

Expectations of the everlasting
warrior-frog of katmandu
are not of possible
futures of parrallel universes
but of world peace in our time.

And if I had a lie to follow
from early day til end of time
you would be my terrible firework
my window into crime

Without the dance, no flat tires
would be cause for opression
and every cushioned seat would
be a sacred sanctuary

An institution for the weak of heart
the handicapped of will.
Hiding behind terms as societies most ill.

For the record, nothing here is true
unless you wish it so, it won't be that way for you.
So take of your unfatazising shackels
and throw yoruself into oblivion.

Yes, well, i havnt posted any poetry in a while. Altough i've been very active prose wise.

So without further ado, poems from University. A few didnt make it here, because they are in Swedish and you wouldnt understand them. Also, i wont translate them.


Or maybe i will!

*Translated* dated at: sep 2, 2004. Alderach.

Cold, white, cellhallroom
mirrors: work, gain.
Coinciding rewinds of time
do no good.

Questions on and on, albeit
not ressesive lamp.

Nonsens boy, the real thing is less uncommon.
disintegrate not my point of view
like barbarians.

Undoubtably independant wooden table.

Maybe the prose should point
towords reality to a larger extent. I find it odd
that this table isnt leaning.

Unsure if the eraser law holds true.
Soon the Decan will come,
In the break the world is smoking.

The Weird.

My mind is on fire.
But the fire is moist
It dampens the otherwise.
overactive nodes.
of my headbox.

With delicate scrupenty
the wall of my psyche contracts
pushing what little sense i have
out from my noseholes
Making my consience valid
if blue. Last but not least overidden.

Hands to my tempels. Tunes, be my ride,
blind i must stumble, the beat at my side.
my emotion state is crumbling
and i am filled with the pre-created
The fabricated nonsenssounds
that would enable me to swim
had i only the soundbased mirth-like appendages.

Gather, one last try, the weird. The tired, the nonsenical,
react through absurd to become the reality
Wich i could not express
alone.

Show me Poem.

Show me a couple in love.
Don't show me the ground and nothing above.

Show me anyone who has not been defeated.
Don't show me a loser, all tired and beaten.

Show me someone with a mind that does not need cleaning.
Don't show me the people dealing and hating.

Show me two friends with nothing in common.
Don't show the state of yearning and longing.

Show me beauty, unparralleled, free.
Don't show me symmetry, rigid and stale.

Show me a dance where the music stopped playing.
Don't show me the energy, not healing, sustaining.

Show me a world where crying is gone.
Don't show me a place where feelings are wrong.

Show me a heart that has not yet been broken.
Don't show me the world where nothing is spoken.

Show me a prison where justice was served.
Don't show me the time when no one was heard.

Show me one ideology that atually works.
Don't show me the crooks, and people who curse.

Show me a wasteland, teeming with life.
Don't show me a forest of anquish and strife.

Show me your mind, put up to the test.
Don't show me graphs, not even in jest.

Show me around, inside of your head.
Don't show me out, away too the dead.


Please show me somewhere where someone, is happy.
Please show me how in the world, that could be.
Please be my guide, my trust and my soulmate.
Please, show me and i'll show you...


---

:|

i want to make a poem
but all the words are used
no chance to be original
with my low-rent muse

i strive always for perfection
on this simple way of verse
managing on simple kilobytes
what i cannot do on earth

i will not use the proper
punctionation schemes
neihter will i draw habit on
our capitalisation meme

all the same i want to do
what few of us have done
i want to make a single poem
once, upon this time.

it will be as lenghty
as beautiful as dull
as horrendously malignant
like some steelworkers toil

it will be about a feeling
a great collection of them all
and it will show you
what it means to be alone

all the words i have are broken
all the thoughts i think are used
all the memories ive spoken
are not meant to be confused

but i disgress
and i linger on
trying to accomplish
what none of us has done
Now. Eradicate. Dismember.
All attention here, and forward.
Im pointing towords the simple line ahead

---> Alone. A single thought strikes resemblance in the banks of your brain.
It touches every part of life. Damping it, removing you, inch by inch. And all thats left if you. Tired, waiting. Longing.
Forever.

...

Never.

And there it is.
Word by word what you thought and what it is.
With nothing leftt to understand
I leave this on our grave.

*snap*
And all my words are broken.
You are free once more. 

Poem! Poem!

Flee! Flee! The age is past,
where triumphant horses
gallop through fields of repression.

Run! Run! The time is now.
Make haste away from places of sollitude.

Come! Come! To the place of serenity.
The place in my heart is for you.

Away! Away!
And i will harbour your friendship inside.

Love, Love.
Love with me, and we shall harbour our friendship forever inside.

---

A bonus poem fragment! Alas my muse only supplied inspiration for the last part of what seems to be an interesting poem.

"Jump, not through a meadow on a green spring(day),
rather from a cold greyhearted tommorow.
So that but one piece if left.
And all of your heart may adore it."

Jai!

See? Your not perfect.
Can't you feel whats wrong?
You delude yourself.
No, honestly, stop it.
Here, let me help you along.

Your problem is not inconsistency.
But urges that bother you constantly.
How do you expect to seperate
Your mind from the body it operates?

I suggest you take time to think
and to meditate.
To ponder
and with someone speculate.

Perhaps in time you will see
The world is an illusion
And me,
Will all my contemplative poetry
Is no more then a fish in the sea,

Of conscious souls, none alike.

Minds

I sit, not fully knowing what awaits me.
gazing beyond to activites, in another window.
Another history.

A glimpse therein, proceeds and begins
an eternity in my mind.
Thoughts build up to a semi-coherent All
of 'somewhere' I've never been.

Something I've never done.

Someone I've never seen before.

It all piles up. Imagining (believing)
That their may (must be) Stories to be told.
Over there in the unknown,
things must be known to others.
And perhaps, in life's almigty twists of Syncronysms (paraleliality*) there may be one writing down the same on her notepad.

Loneliness

In my chest lies a simple organ,
It beats slowly in agony,
It is held within a fist,
A fist not of stone,
Nor flesh and blood,
But one of spirit and mind,

It slowly closes,
Agony,

I wander my life like I'm watching a TV show,
I see couples,
Happy,
Their smiles cut my heart like a knife,

I watch things pass by,
A play a TV show,
Something speaks of love lost or love denied,
The knife in my heart gains a serrated edge,
It cuts deep and slow,

As always I render comfort to those few in my life,
I sit and listen,
I try to take the pain,
I add it to my own,
I listen to them complain,
Of being lonely,
Of having lost,

I can't stop,
I can't shut my ears,
I have to listen,
It's my blood,
My nature,
I would have an easier time not breathing,

It hurts just the same                  

Poems made at UNI take a while to be brought to you all. So here is the latest batch. uhm. Yeah.

I hope someone enjoys them!

---

Working Title: Dunes of Sorrow

cover white with snow
silent fall on dunes of sorrow
Inspire gentle thoughts in hearts of men

together yet again we travel
throughout the drifts of unconsciousness

Me, and my bride of loathing
...on the dunes of sorrow
I weep silently for you.

Yeah. I wrote a poem today.

Originally i was thinking of putting a EULA here before you read it. But since thats silly, and goes against the nature of poetry in general, i wont!

So feel free to jump to any conclusions you like, or interprit it and analyze it as you normally would or wouldn't.

:)

"The Title for this Poem Is a Secret."

She walked inside the room,
Hah! I thought I was strong
When I gazed upon her,
I knew I was wrong.
Not that I care anymore.

She wore a dress of pure autumn like it was spring,
all redbrown and yellow, and all
I could think of was her.

She sat down beside me and greeted as if
all was alright with the world.

When she turns around, I am paralyzed.

She brought an extra day of spring to me,
as some sort of sign. Like a polar and early
lucia.

Inside I feel happy and floaty.

--- Hm. My muse supplied me with this last part just now. Treat it as you wish. ---

Now I sit here and think of the past
Of the conversations we've had.
Admitedly not very many,
and not too far in betwene
And always we were somewhere else.
With someoneelse doing the talking.
Amusing what life can acomplish.

I smile to myself when I think of the time...
And think, maybe I shall in the future.

- Alderach. 7dec 2004.

(:  

Unknown date, still 2004 though. By Alderach (who else?)
(lets see if the board accepts my attemp at formatting this poem..)

Panic
In the circular room
together with uncertain
people (I fail) to ponder
logic. Alltogether my mind
Trully embrased by the
possiblity of not failure but
comedically synonym type likeness
Afraid of the now suddenly uncertain
future. In the end my poem is triangular
Back / to whatever happens
Ill surive somehow.

(well, it was triangular when I wrote it on paper..)

Dated to: 18 november, 2004. Alderach.....

Lalala, im happy it's snowed!
Tonight, today.
laughter, and rejoicing to this
worldy phenonoma.

Always smiling at the
wonderfullness of all.

Overwhelming conversations in a corridor
building future opinions on facts
of the present in my colourfull
cardigan, electrical tubing
encompasses the hallway in
its own sprecial kind of metiallic
shell. Again my poems exist not so
much as a ramle of words
to be analyzed, moreso
fragments of my emotions
and thoughts.
happily i continue my smile and
dream of what will and might happen tommorow.