The Seasons

are old-fashioned Carl Larsson rooms

for adults,

with their worried faces

and shattered blank bearings

The Seasons

are Bergmanesque scripts

in sultry Sodom settings,

archipelagoed with malignant melanomas,

adultery-infused, overrated, self-murdered

The Seasons

always come in a 1940's atmosphere;

motor yachts with shiny wooden decks

under the sun,

and a stifled Dagermanian postwar self doubt

in bolted garages

Autumn's genetically modified darkness

hides stinging fungi

and shabby hospital beds

in giant vacant-eyed TB sanatoriums

out in the pine forests

The darkness of autumn is a spherical captivity

'round stables & dwellings

Spring days present their bloodlessly faded

to each other,

recoiling behind unaccustomed eyes

The May sun accuses,

impossible to oppose;

the withered and squandered

laid bare

under the heavenly eye

Winter

is the only one

standing by its inhabitants,

stern & chilly, smiling grimly

from sunrise to dusk

Winter belongs to the stars,

galaxies sailing 'cross the celestial sphere

like the discuses of the Greek high culture;

high-born Nordic men & women

raging along the beautiful calligraphy of ski tracks,

the pagan sacrificial smoke of their breaths rising

over marshes and swamps;

Bob Dylan & Bach in iPod earphones

But in the empty halls of summer

the succession of days crumple up

an increasingly heavy anguish,'

brooding 'neath the clouds

Summers are sketchbooks for heavy thoughts

and solitary cuts

in throats & wrists

The roads wind warm into emptiness

The windows of insane asylums on bedrock

in pine forests

stand blind where the birds always fly away

Summer equals humanity's fall

deep into itself;

death hollow, covered with fumbling wasps

Inside bird-shrill, night-light marshlands

all things sink and gurgle off

into millennia of oblivion

The meaty dog day eyes of summer

never carry anybody's burdens

Summer weeks are pale, pimply, obese:

Death messages delivered by swifts

in sharp screeches at high speed

The roadsides are choking in feces

and bluebell chimes

in the heat

Summer is relentless and chubby,

takes whomever under its pretence,

to grind down

The summers are reeking with self-murderers,

kitchen waste growing in their oral cavities,

timid in the slavish discipline

of their deaths

The sensuality of the seasons

is thin as silk,

wraps up and does away with,

imperceptibly and efficient,

until everything is tied up and mute

in an ”away”

imploding into its singularity,

and then never was