Dinner time

Dinner time is gray, restless, birthing evil
carrying the day you wanted to clean but instead fill with sausage, wine, cheese
at dinner time it’s really time to starve
shut up and pray for forgiveness

I fall asleep but I think of breaths in the night
on porches
america maybe

who can sleep me
me, I can sleep
though I think about how restless they are on these porches
once this restlessness pulsates through me
only once
then I fall asleep

Text: Fredrika Flinta
Image: Vera Nilsson, Sagor

cradle

to be born into the grave
not willing, nor able
the lilacs growing eventually in spring

lulled gently by the cradle
the rotting carcasses of unfulfilled wishes tipping over the edges,
growing like mold

it didn’t have to be that way but it was
and it became the march through the night all of us
like the dance macabre
became morbid figures
dancing the night away

it wasn’t like we had a chance to become
ourselves or anything
after all,

a birth rooted in death is, figuratively, an preemptive strike

living
like burning candles in the wind
not really understanding the meaning of heat

it is fragile

Text: Beate Björkengren
Image: Alexander Norton, “Was ist loss?”, 2015

The Knight

Is it your medieval breath that calls me

or is it proof that I lived a long time ago?

Were you, perhaps, a long long time ago, a knight

or is it due to weakness that you suffer?

What is more beautiful than dying –

in your arms, all things become so sexy.

You do all things – in your name 

is it, perhaps, because a long long time ago, 

you served the Lord?

There is a way – as a fag

but perhaps it was lost, a long time ago

The wind is calling us

Time to move on

Back to the middle ages

Text: Ian Memgard
Image: Juliusz Lewandowski
Translated from Swedish by Zola Gorgon