We can be heroes on the floor.
The horses: don’t go there.
The rats: in the newspaper they are
equating art and nazism again.
The artist would be a dictator
even though the spoons have rusted
for his wedding. Don’t ruin
my photos from Los Angeles,
they are so innocent.
The inflation: it’s innocent in a different way.
I play with the spoons
which are inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
I am innocent when I smile. I am a riot
when I participate in the myth of T-Centralen.
I want to bring the dead fox to the hospital.
The children hate butterflies
when there is a fire. The art is sick,
it must be burnt like sick bodies.
I don’t think I will learn anything about gambling
from poems about snow.
They are so beautiful I call them snow-socialism
because my innocence is becoming pop music,
my mirror image contains rubber gloves,
there are images of Sardanapalus on my cards
which I drop on the table when you arrest me
for disturbing the peace. I am not
disturbing the peace, I am disturbing the war.
The trinkets I use will not last,
I need you to buy my soul with a hammer.

Originally published in White Wall Review 41 (2017)