No AI

Driving my car in a crazy way

Through the crowded city

Raging against the machine

The monster that controls us

The collective beehive

I don’t want to leave my control

To some boring self driving car

Love taking risk, being innovative

Creative

Why should I leave that nice

Illusion of being in control

For a moralising boring

Beast?

Father

You come back to

His house in the woods

And it is just the same

Nothing has changed

He will stay the same

Being hypocritical criticising

My mothers family even though

They been separated for over 45 years

I am still his young and sloppy son

Even though being an old bald man

Perspective

It is different to become older

Your perspective changes

The future becomes the past

In reality, creating a paradox

Whatever you do, knowing

That it will not result in a bright

And better future just more

Ability to carry the burden

Of being oneself

Rage

Anger is so forbidden

A good way to destroy

Your argument and

Losing your rights

Provoking and making

Your life difficult

Is the strategy

Act One

Tumbling around in town

Listening to people talking

While the sun sets

The city is empty and quiet

Frozen in time

A twentieth century drama

With rich and poor

Industrialist and workers

Artist and orderly office clerks

Playing their role in the game of

Being

April

Noisy birds, strong white light

The sun is turning the tide,

Black earth and white snow

Mixing, sealing off retreating

To the safety of the library

Growing knowledge and a beard

Haunted Soul

Trying to deal

With the impossible;

The probably future

And the horrors of the past

The memories has come to

Haunt the tired mind again

Sequences repeating itself

Again and again

Peace, happiness, passion

Are lost dreams

Searching for renewed

Meaning in late afternoon

A Great Thing To Do

Writing is a great thing

Making feeling and thoughts

Meaningful and changes them

Do not hesitate, just write anything

Stranger, just keep on writing

Find your tone, your rhythm and soul

Eventually you end up poor but happy as me

Or maybe poor and unhappy

But at least with some poems buried in the sand