There is also the earlier work Synkrotron, the distillation of my poetic labors between 1989 and 1995.  Because I wrote my poetry in Swedish, hardly anybody could read it; and because the sentiment and was out of sync with the time and the place, none of my compatriots who could read it could understand it.  As it happens, the world contained many other poems that people could read instead, so little harm has been done.  After Synkrotron, I quit writing poetry to focus on philosophical and scientific pursuits.  However, a few relapses are recorded below.  Are they any good?




On the bank at the end
Of what was there before us
Gazing over to the other side
On what we can become
Veiled in the mist of naïve speculation
We are busy here preparing
Rafts to carry us across
Before the light goes out leaving us
In the eternal night of could-have-been







The astral glockenspiel quivers
As our bodies align in the orbit of Venus;
Galloping stallions and mares
Print with their hooves, pixel by pixel,
The lights and shadows of mortal life,
Pink flesh for the gods’ inspection ‒
Who clap their hands together at the sight;
For the heavens love the authentic peep.
Whence the orbs appear to us sublunars
Empty, mute, and dimly lit;
While on the other side the jamboree,
Abuzz with primal harmony,
Fluoresces with the ecstasy of being.







See the plucked chicken
Its throat ineptly slit
Over the abattoir drain
Bleeding its life away

See the man running
Running for his life
Chased by a rabid dog
The pit-bull called Eternity

See the fountain gushing
From fifty fishes’ mouths
Various parabolas
Same filthy water




Took the path of least resistance
Ended up in this hole
Snug and comfy in my circumscribed existence

Sometimes, awake in bed,
I look up at the moon-disc and wonder
What winds are sweeping the heath now, what outlaw riders

But less and less frequently