We, Like Matchsticks
A new year’s eve of bile and loathing,
to end a week of false remorse
and crown a winter vitriolic.
Too many cigarettes need smoking
and too much liver goes unscathed.
Cradle me, you futile bitch,
Let’s learn to live and frown together.
Curl up with me; despise with me,
let’s surrender to our sickness
and rue the world, apart and cold.
Spring will come and life will flourish-
our planet cast adrift the sun.
We will wither and come to ashes
and all things splendorous will come.The Tall Grass
I will find you in the tall grass,
as the chopper whips it into a furious sea
and the smoke scatters under the rotor blades.
Underneath that swollen setting sun I will find you playing dead.
Praying that I pass you over.
The machine noise will drown out the sound of the chambering round
but you will know that I’m there.
I’ll cast a shadow.
Born in Uppsala, Sweden, 29 years ago, John-Anders Magnusson was exposed at an early age to the ravages of the written word. Though perhaps not always fiery and passionate in his literary endeavors, sometimes it seems that words and will come together amicably. As a child he was struck in the head with a rock and promptly came to grasp the subtleties of human communication.
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