My mind is tired at times,

fragmented, dusty, frail like a wasp's nest,

death-wishy,

worried about money,

the state of computers,

and the afterlife

of the words/worlds I've arranged

on paper, hard drives and usb:s

- as well as the mindless mindfulness

spent on my back on shakti-mats

I'm un-worried only about the happy physical strain

of bicycle training,

ski rides

and steep climbs up screes

I'm posing as a bedroomer, screen-huncher,

a scree riser and a road rager

I'm lifelong, I know that,

and in the words of Gaston Bachelard

in La poétique de l'space (1958),

soon in ”the great domain of the undated past”

We, the people, constitute the biggest hoax possible;

sacks of organs

bubbling & wheezing;

meat & blood & hormones & tiny bursts of electricity,

pretending to be spiritual ”beings”

with individuality, personality & worth,

though simply no more than matter in skin containers;

uncleanliness marching the streets,

amassing in graves,

anxiety filling up each little crack

Sune says he's a cripple,

Sture that he's an old fogey,

but I don't know what to call myself,

rising up the white staircase in Niemisel,

a mug of coffee and a few words

at the end of the line