The Mother and I had no desire for each other,

except the strictly erotic

I could hardly stand her!

If a newspaper was lying around in her home

out in Skarpnäck,

the whole apartment looked messy

She painted small, cute flower arrangements

that felt anxiously controlled,

and probably arose from the same context as her ulcerative colitis,

i.e., a repressed hysteria that gave a subdued Bates Motel feeling

The Mother and I first met on the train from Stockholm down to Skitköping

when I had been in Helsinki,

where I had been extravagantly unfaithful

with a novelist from Karelia,

while my American wife stayed home

taking care of our newborn daughter

I stopped over in Stockholm, coming back from Finland,

and went with a friend to Folkets Bio (The People's Cinema)

to watch the groundbreaking Koyaanisqatsi

The woman on the train was blonde and voluptuous,

and we were the only ones in the compartment

She was dangeorusly enticing!

I pulled out the copy of Vilhelm Ekelund's Campus et Dies

that I carried,

hoping for a smooth path to intimacy

We walked through Skitköping, both headed to the East side

I recall with a sexual shiver our bodies moving in rhythm

over the cobblestones of Stora Torget (The Town Square)

I was barely able to walk, my arousal pushed to the extreme

inside my trousers,

and I'm convinced she was moistening vigorously

inside her light trench coat,

and that she, too, as soon as possible, satisfied herself,

as a matter of pure necessity

Shortly after, I sent her a copy of Campus et Dies,

and a little later she showed up at my doorstep

My American wife and I had separated by then,

but the the apartment had not yet been sold,

allowing free rein for sexual activities

The rooms vibrated

with the conviction that Eros would soon burst into action,

but after a modest introductory kiss and a lingering hug

out on the vertigo of the living room floor,

the Mother contented herself with revealing her boobs,

as a concession to bourgeois traditional female honor

It wasn't until later in autumn, as we prepared for a canoe trip

on Lake Båven, that she finally let loose – but full force!

The three-day canoeing from Stjernehof to Skebokvarn

initially turned into an impaitient wait

for the next sexual encounter

It wasn't until the last day of the outing that we finally engaged,

in a wooded area in a forest grove on a slope above Lake Båven,

not far from Sunds gård (The Sund Farm), amidst rustling leaves,

in the glimmer from the lake

Then followed several months of scattered rendezvous

in Stockholm and Skitköping,

reserved solely for sexual routines and nothing else

In all respects other than intercourse,

the Mother was utterly impossible in my life

She, for instance, suffered from a bird phobia,

triggered, especially, by flocks of birds flapping around her,

while I was an amateur ornithologist – but on the other hand,

she was so incredibly pleasurable that this more than compensated

for her otherwise dreary way of living

One morning, as she accompanied me through Stockholm

to the Skitköping train,

she slipped in the question of whether I was faithful to her

“Yes”, I lied, thinking of the fillyjonk Anita;

an unnaturally tall woman, skinny as a stick,

with disproportionately large feet and saggy breasts,

smoking brown cigarettes – whom I used to have sex with

like one does with a whore,

fairly regularly, during short visits to her home

at Kungsholmsstrand,

high up in a tiny apartment with a small, white record player

and some Vivaldi records;

a habitual behaviour,

continuing even after she was married and had children

Additionally, I contemplated all the women I had acquired

for one-nights stands

through bizarre personal ads in the newspaper

But the Mother wasn't interested in my answer,

which was a blatant lie,

because she just wanted to be thoroughly and elaborately seduced;

a mighty positive attitude without emotional complications,

for which she deserves credit!

Then she announced that she was pregnant!

We “celebrated” with a formidable session

I have never bedded anyone who enjoyed a session as thoroughly

as the Mother

Given her meticulous tidiness in other areas,

the lustfulness of her encounters

was all the more splashily shamanistic

It was like entering a sewing supplies store

in an upscale neighborhood at Östermalm, Stockholm,

lifting the skirt and lowering the panties

of a plump, middle-aged proprietress in nylon stockings

in an inner room,

taking the lady standing,

while customers waited out in the store, ringing the bell

at the cash register for attention

At times the Mother demonstrated her hunger and insatiable desire

by arching her body in a nimble bow during my penetration,

tensing her buttocks as hard as Muhammed Ali's fist

during his victory over Joe Frazier on October 30, 1974

in the twelve rounds at Madison Square Garden

I've calculated, with the help of diaries,

that it was such a hard-ass bow session

that resulted in the Mother's unintentional,

albeit not exactly well-avoided, pregnancy,

one early morn in Skarpnäck, before she left for work

I had deposited my genes in the Mother's well-lubricated

docking port,

and the result didn't hesitate

The only sexual reproach I have for her,

is that she never allowed herself

to be entered from behind;

one of my favourite sexual hobbies

But after the birth of the ex-son,

the Mother's need for control grew exponentially

I sometimes traveled up to The Mother with my young daughter

in the by then dissolved American marriage

The Mother and I engaged sexually

between feedings and diaper changes,

but if she had to go down to the laundry room,

she would get anxious about leaving the ex-son with me,

so brought him down with her,

while I remained upstairs in the apartment

anticipating next juicy lovemaking session, sipping black coffee

The ex-son's eating disorders in his teens

I guess were the result of the unnaturally anxious and controlling

ulcerative colitis environment

He was admitted for treatment,

but later acquired a rather misguided cultural career

His writings were skillfully formulated, but devoid of life,

as he had lived far too little

outside the hyper-tense and shriveled,

anxiously autoimmune lack of identity

that the Mother inadvertently imparted to him

He was promoted in the industry

by publishers who also promoted LGBTQ advocates

and refugees

A young guy with good language skills and eating disorders,

plus an acquired academic title, could be monetized, they hoped,

but when he took a compulsory religious, sectarian course,

they started to realize their naivety,

and the dangerous emptiness of the ex-son,

garnished with clichés,

became apparent to many when he declared on Twitter

- a platform he blocked me from, but the content of which

had still been relayed to me by others concerned

in his vicinity -

that he intended to force his children into a life-denying,

decase-inducing religiosity

The ex-son grasped at straws, declared himself a “christian”,

panickly entered a marriage at almost forty,

producing a couple of descendants in quick succession,

whom he, in open announcements on the Internet,

intends to force into his delusion-fueled sectarian

cannibalistic fantasy (“Whoever eats my flesh

and drinks my blood has eternal life” [John 6:54])

- which opens up the possibility for reports

to the relevant authority

In adulthood, he allowed himself to be adopted

by the Mother's stubby little man,

and thus I managed to escape all obligations,

of whatever kind they might have been,

which was an immense relief

The story unfolds through a couple of diaries.

“Time Passes Slowly”, says Dylan;

yet it still passes