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Poems by Jos


I open the window.
Streams of red light
from passing cars,
streetlights, flashing
nightcreatures: the police.
They seek to know me,
seek to know the mind-junkie
moodkiller. The traitor of
patriots and logic.
I wake up, and walk away.

A wander in the dark.
Humans driving a nearby bus watches
me as if they cannot see me, I see
the door open and they all expose
their intestines. Unaware of my
mind I collapse.

I devote these lines
to my black boots.
Filled with blood, steaming death.
I'd throw them away and cry,
but my tears are in their adventures,
and the uncertain journeys
from which they hail
I long to remember.


Dying in Metropolis,
surveying Necropolis.
Colors vanished.

Crying like angels
in neurotic rape-scenes,
slowly choking on roofs
halfway to cloudy paradise.

This race called "man"
I throw away,
and replace it with thoughts
of rotting ghouls.

We should bleed but all we
do is cry, drown and die.


Grotesque, these obscene
sights. We're crawling
through midnight velvet,
our knees are covered with
yellow leaves.
We plan a murder,
but the nervous breeding
of her pale soul is lost
into catholic inferno.
Where are these natural rights hidden?
Rage, fear... Sins...

I feel sacrificed to contradiction:
the sins and harvests,
lifespreading propaganda and
apathy of humanity.
I feel lost in the omens:
Death, death, death.
No escaping now.

Mechanical Scars

Precious, priceless.
The skidmarks on my floor,
it resembles a car or a murder.
I cannot tell, these hit n' runs
are too frequent in my room.

Glory now, I'm awake and there's
no scream. A mysterious angel roam
the trees outside my window, a child
of nature. Who would raise and destroy
such a fragile beauty? Who is death?

Those Skidmarks.
I wish they could cross, and
the death of the automobile
would make way for new means of
transportation, a glorious break
from dazzling streetlights and
melachonical creatures passing by.

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Biographical sketch: Born in 1980, still breathing.
My real name is Jostein Ekeland and I live in Kirkenes, Northern Norway.

Jos recommends:

An American Prayer by James Douglas Morrison

Reason: I like the natural flow in it. I like the fact that it's a product of a person, not a

Recommendations for writers:

Just write whatever YOU want. Poetry are a description of feelings, and feelings don't follow a pattern made by any other than yourself.



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