Memories of my death

I can remember that I was held under

Long enough for my lungs to tear themselves asunder.

I can remember trying to fight back,

Without any breath, my body just a sack.

I can remember that I screamed and screamed,

Screamed so long I thought I dreamed

The time without screaming, the drowning and pain,

Screamed until I broke, I was no longer sane.

Then, if I’m right, I think I died,

I… I think I actually died.

If I died… Then am I a ghost?

Doomed to wander this bleak coast.

I remember my death. What now?

I can’t stay, I must move on? But how?


Chopping block

We’re all waiting for our turn on the block,

My family is gone and I can hear the clock.

The executioner chops us up one by one

We’re waiting in a pile, burned by the sun.

We scream for mercy but the hangman can’t hear

The pitch of our screams too high for his ear.

I see an opening and I flee, I flee!

Stumble on the bodies of the mass around me.

The hangman sees me and chooses me next

I can’t resist, it’s like I were hexed.

Sets me on the block, prepares his ax,

I pass out and my body does relax.

The hangman chops and I am no more,

Next one to the block, an endless chore.


In the head of the hangman at that time:

“Oak is hard, my ax is past its prime.”


One gets funny ideas when chopping firewood, as there’s quite a lot of time to think while axing stuff.

Take care of yourself

If I get hungry, I become mean,

Nastiness grows as I become lean.

If I get tired, the wall gets a dent,

I get a bit stabby when I’m all spent.

If you do too, and probably don’t wanna,

Take care of yourself like a green iguana.

Take care of yourself, eat and sleep,

The crapness waves can’t come in and sweep

You into the pit where crap times are had,

Especially so if you lose your dad,

Or mom or anyone you really love,

This is when all of the above

Really take place, mourning hunger,

Sorrow steals dreams from the old and the younger.

If in a bad place, do take care

It’ll make you feel a bit better, I swear.

Sauna gnome

I’ve been reading a book on old Finnish folk tales and mythology. Some of the stories can get very non-Disney at their best.


Going to the sauna must be done on time,

Never, ever late, not for song nor rhyme.

There was a woman some thousand years ago,

Who worked hard with a twisted toe.

She looked forward to Saturday night,

The toe would heal in the sauna all right.

It snew and snew and it took a long while,

Till she got home: midnight, still a mile.

Everyone at home had washed already,

While she was still walking, slow and steady.

Due to this delay it was already one

As she sat next to the oven’s small sun.

Saunas are known to house their own gnome

Who is proud of its warm, cozy home.

It wards off diseases if treated with respect,

Given sacrifices, but if you neglect,

To obey its rules it will be wont to do

Like gnomefolk will, it will hurt you.

The woman, who came late, not of her own volition,

Made no sounds, which raised much suspicion.

Her brothers and sisters went to investigate

Found the sauna empty, the warmth first rate.

They looked and peered in the dark of the room,

And, in the rafters, next to the broom,

Saw what used to be the skin of their sister,

Shredded and torn to bits like a popped blister.

This, they knew, was done by the gnome,

Who suffers no tardiness inside its home.

Prolonging life

Prolonging life is like seeking perfection,

You can always improve on one more section

And one more, rinse and repeat

Until you start pushing up daisies and wheat.

A million steps, each one one at a time,

A million done, infinity to climb.

Eating healthy, sports and stuff,

Implanting bits to make your bones tough,

You’ll hit hundreds and thousands perhaps,

But, in the end, you will collapse.

If not before, then when it all ends,

The universe, I mean, with dividends.

Hard to survive when nothing else does,

Perfect entropy, you can’t make a fuss.

Prolonging life, it can be done,

You might live as long as the sun,

But you will die, maybe much, much later.

You will share the fate of the Terminator.


I like cycling, just to be clear.


It’s a deep, dark night, silent and calm.

All is asleep, every house, child, mom.

The moon is bright and full and fat.

The moonlight made for a sneaky-sneaky cat.

You can hear the wind, that’s all.

Not even rain has the gall to start to fall.


You can’t hear the clink of the chain

It’s as quiet as the growing of grain.

The squeaking of tires is silent as death,

Just as quiet as a dormouse’s breath.

You can’t hear the ring of the bell,

Neither can Timmy who’s trapped in a well.


When they come, they come without a sound.

In the bright morning someone dead is found.

You can try to hide if you wish,

But outrun? No! You’re as good as a fish.

Who are they? You might ask.

Bicycle ninjas, tires and a mask.


Bicycle ninjas will come for you.

Bicycle ninjas will run you through.

Bicycle ninjas, if you transgress

On a cycling ninja and soil their dress.


They don’t care for S-U-V’s.

If you own one, you have no peace.

If you want to avoid their wrath,

Just stick to the cyclist’s moral path:

Nothing with an engine, no car, no bus.

Just two tires and physical fuss.


It’s not all bad, it’s good for your bod’.

And cheap too, and the roads are broad.

There’s one thing that I just don’t like:

Them putting people’s heads on a pike.

If they just quit doing this thing.

“B-ninjas are great!”I would sing.