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?


Failing sometimes

I brushed my teeth and went a bit wide,

My beard turned white and foamy at the side,

I showed a good friend who crackle-cracked up,

Spilled some green gargler from a sippy cup.

Failing sometimes can still be good,

Don’t be afraid, I think that no one should.

I cleaned the windows when the spring was young,

Enjoyed the sun of which the birds had sung,

When I was done I noticed something a bit mean,

Instead of water I had used some gasoline.

The windows now have rainbows so it’s kind of ok,

This goes on no matter what the weather men say.

Failing sometimes can still be good,

Don’t be afraid, I think that no one should.

My new roommate bought some tp rolls,

Placed them where they go and was filled with holes.

Disregard the chorus that I just have said.

Put it wrong side out and I will murder you dead.

Failing sometimes can still be good,

But mess with my tp and I will get a bit rude.

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.

Mad potato

A potato gets angry if you boil it too long.

It falls apart as everything’s wrong.

When you fork it, you’d want a spoon,

It doesn’t hold together like the earth or the moon.

A mad potato is feared on the plate,

The carrots and onions rue their fate.

Once a potato, when it got mad,

Jumped off the plate, which made me sad.

It stole my knife and threatened the milk,

Which escaped the glass, slithering like silk.

This armed potato stabbed my cup,

Porcelain screech made the cat tense up.

Ramming the knife into my loaf of bread,

I had to declare the bread stone dead.

That homicidal potato, in a mad rage,

Ran off the table to the horror of the sage.

Hitting the ground it shattered into mash,

A quiet, angry thud, no bang or crash.

An angry tater caused all this fuss,

Frightened milk and an upset puss.

Not a single dry eye when the bread was buried,

An eternal scratch that the cup always carried.

Don’t boil potatoes a second too long,

You might have to compose a sad song.