I never finish anything.

detta jävla regn kommer inte att sluta

mörkret sänker sig som tjära över huvudet

ett hagelgevär tar käken bort

död och förstörelse

vandra från kartan

mål för hjässan

chauvinistiska imperialistiska amerikanska marinkårssoldater

massförstörelsevapen

min kappa luktar blöt hund

detta Lypsyl är jävla smutsigt

låt oss fly
du och jag
Bara en dag

ta en promenad i parken

Jag kan inte sluta tänka på dig
blonda lockiga röda leenden
min ryska tjej

det är dags att gå
Snart är det sommar
grässlätter och blommor
ljuset skiner igenom bladen
du bär en gul krona av blommor
ljus vit klänning
Låt oss dansa tills midsommar natten är mörk

Jag är så jävla svensk

Warm, too warm sunny May day, me and Os headed to the city by way of train. I get to the station before him, sit down on a bench in the shade, light a cigarette. It’s May, I keep thinking, a year since high school graduation. What have I been doing? I look up at the large clock above me and realize I’m here ten minutes early. Os is probably running late, even though his parents’ house, where he’s staying for the summer, is closer to the station than mine. Os, really Oswald – he’s been telling people to call him Os since he was nine and everyone does except his family – has been away for the last year, attending college in another city. It was a sudden decision he made, well, almost exactly a year ago, that no one really understood. Since then he’s hardly been heard from but when I ran into him the other day he agreed to hang out.
I remember a conversation we had during, I think it was, finals week, in the school courtyard. He seemed to be beaming with joy those days, more than his typical cheerfulness, greeting my in our usual way: a grin and a middle finger.
“What are you so happy about?” I asked him. “Though you had your English exam today?”
“True,” he conceded, nodding, “but that doesn’t matter.”
“How so?”
“Because the pieces are falling into place, Daniel, it’s all just right.”
“Right.” I replied, not really trying to interpret him.
“Still going to the City Uni?” I asked.
“Yup. You?” he answered.
“Not sure.”
Across the yard, students were shuffling out of too warm classrooms.
“So did you see the new Killers video?”
“Yes! It was awesome.”
“I know! Hm.”
“What?”
“Just thought you’d criticize it or something.”
“Nah. Don’t feel like it. Not now.”
Throughout the entire conversation he’d kept that whimsical grin on his face and I was going to ask what made him so happy but instead asked him if he had decided on a prom date yet.
“Yeah,” he said distractedly, spotting something. He got up slowly, only briefly glancing at me.
“Listen, man I gotta go,” and then “catch you after school!” as he ran off.
Now it’s five to and I’m putting out the ash-tipped cigarette when I hear footsteps to my left. Ilana, also from our high school, is approaching, smiling her shy little smile. She’s good looking, better than I remember, dark hair to her middle back, brown twinkling eyes, wearing a long navy-blue skirt and striped longsleeve despite the weather.
“Hi, Daniel,” she says, and I offer her a seat on my bench.
“Hi,” I smile back as she sits down. Though I’ve seen her around this year, I haven’t talked to her much, despite the fact that we’ve gone to the same schools for twelve years.
“How are you?” I ask.
“Fine. You?” and I smile at her again but her expression is kind of bland and it unsettles me.
“I’m great,” I reply, “just great.”
“What have you been doing, then?” she asks, and I tell her working, you know, hanging around, and how about you?
“Comparative literature,” she tells me she’s been studying, at the City University.”
“Cool,” I tell her,” I always knew you’d be doing something like that.”
She smiles and her eyes twinkle, but they always seem to be doing that. We say nothing for a little while, I examine the train tracks, then she says: “So. What are you doing in the city?”
“Having lunch with Os,” I reply, look at the clock, three to.
“Oh. That’s nice.”
She’s studying her feet and when I begin to ask her what she’s doing in the city she begins “Will he-” then we both stop and smile, embarrassed.
“You go first,” I tell her, but she only shakes her head and says “No, nevermind,” and despite my “come one” she asks me what I was going to say. I repeat the question; she’s going to a lecture on postmodern something.
“Now, what were you saying?”
“Well,” she replies, shifting in her seat,” I was just wondering if you’re meeting Os in the city?”
“Actually, he’s supposed to be here” – I look at the clock, one minute – “now, but you know Os, he’s always – oh, look, there he is!”
Across the platform, wearing gray slacks, a Morrissey T-shirt and Wayfarers on top of his close-cropped hair, Os is hustling towards me and I get up to greet him.
“Made it!” he exclaims, and we shake hands.
“Good to see you, you old bastard,” I tell him while he’s catching his breath, grinning.
“You too, asshole,” our usual routine, but he’s shaking his head smiling wistfully, asks “Been here long?” and we start towards the bench.
“Hey, you never know man, there are occasions where the train is actually on time… By the way,” I look at the clock, one past, then back at Os who now has his sunglasses one, “ran into Ilana, that’s her on the bench over there.”
He lifts his hand in greeting, she replies, and we sit down, me in the middle. I cross my ankles and want to start a conversation but the station announcement system sounds and a faraway voice tells us that the train is running fifteen minutes late.
“Oh well,” I say, but the others don’t seem to share my lenience; Os drags a hand down his face. I ask Ilana how she’s doing at school and we end up having a discussion about the old days. There’s a clicking sound next to me, and I look over at Os who’s lighting a cigarette. “Os,” I say, smiling curiously, “I didn’t know you smoked,” but he doesn’t seem to hear me. I turn back to the discussion. As the train clangs its way into the station, I ask him how long he’s been smoking.
“Don’t know,” he mumbles,” train brakes screeching. “A year?” I think he says, and I realize it’s the first thing he’s said since we sat down.

Restless energies could take it no more; movement was required and stopping quickly by my room to get my photo bag I ran off into the misty Moss evening simply because someting needed doing. Fresh air, factory noises and a vague notion to find the police station (I had to get my passport renewed sometime within the next month) spurred me on along with the desire do something completely out of the ordinary. Walking briskly past the school I was suddenly overcome by an amazing image: the floodgates had opened and the dam was pouring water in torrents, millions of gallons streaming out in golden waves and splashing foaming upwards at they hit the black rock bottom. The noise was not a deafening but a soothing roar, a benevolent white noise that shut out all other noise; I could not even hear the loud, clicking shutter of my cheap camera as I snapped picture after picture of the amazing gravity-defying explosions of water. For a while I just sat mesmerized, staring at the water doing its unpredictable dances. Since, I followed the river down, across the bridge and came to the old breweries. From one a walkway extended, hovering preciptiously over the yawning waters. Part of the platform had nearly given out but I crossed it regardless in fearless excitement, knowing the opportunities for pictures on the other side. Hugging the wall behind it, with the neck strap of my camera wrapped around my wrist, I took some more exposures of the exuberant water. That they should be open on this night in particular! I was certainly having a streak of luck. Possibilties abounded and I moved further, leaping onwards eager to see what was next.
An entirely new street; upwards of where I thought I would find the police station, rows and rows of old wooden houses stretched forward into the mist, a faint breeze carrying upwards to me the smell of fresh pastry – strange at eleven o’clock in this small city. A window further down the street revealed to me a pair of pastry chefs hard at work, maybe laboring on an early morning delivery. For once at least there was a smell to savor. Beyond this I found a building that appeared to be my goal; however, across the street was a some kind of roof terrace I had never seen before! I quickly went over and found that it belonged to a pianobar I had been to a few times before. A railing led downstairs, and I approached it kind of carefully for some reason, peeking over the railings. To my great horror I saw a head with a cap on, two hands raised in the air, the figure just standing there frozen. Terrified for a moment that I had disturbed the home of some territorial hobo – there was a lot of trash here – I stopped in my tracks, preparing to run for just long enough to see that it was merely a statue, of Santa Claus no less, probably kept here all through the non-December season. Glad no one was witness to my jump at this spirit of Christmas past, I moved on to take more photos.
The building across the streets was indeed the police station, and now I was pretty certain I would remember the way. Picturesque though it was with its fluorescent lights and glass panes, I decided not to photograph it as officers generally don’t take too kindly to coated strangers taking pictures of the police station late at night. Behind the building, though, lay the highway, and I took some long exposures of the cars whizzing by on the E18. Further beyond lay an underpass going beneath this very road, where there was some very interesting grafitti. Though the bridge the underpass connects to crosses a river, there was still pieces on every pylon; true dedication. The dark loomed beyond, actually just a cross country running track but at night it looked awfully menacing. I pressed on, found a slit through a fence where the light from the sports centre shines through, took some pictures, but eventually decided to go back before everything fell apart, running most of the way.