Showing posts with label ande enochsson. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ande enochsson. Show all posts

Sunday, 3 February 2019

wine synthesis


the hot day in june
on the foggy couch
your humid skin tasted salt
as you taught me to dive
into the stratosphere
without dying

you would not be quiet
telling me
the sea is the only enduring thing
flowing
neuroses would not kill us
our bodies wouldn’t stiffen
and i drank your wine
ruthlessly intoxicated

time after entropy
hearing the rattle of machine guns
outside town
falling snow mutes sound outside
and when a shell explodes a couple of blocks away
the blast sends
shockwaves into
your skin and primal harmonies
not even spiced wine, warm cinnamon can
bring back the colour on your costly features
as carbon acid snow falls over frozen defense positions
and the matchstick men
sink into the night

there is a place past entropy
in the center
where amber lantern casts its glow
shadows alive
the sap rises
here we rest while
bumblebees and gnats hoover
over our subterranean bodies
wine synthesis of
spider web dew and bodily fluids
brewing

©  Anders Enochsson

Wednesday, 15 February 2012

Ande Enochsson



Steams

green-blue pines
smell of wet bark
oxidised iron in the soil 
frost stiffened them
came from ceilings
abandoned barleycorn fields

coloured dew in woodland junctions
hoarfrost biting the outer skin
smell of frozen steam in his nose

the effervescing humours
reservoir entrances frozen over
icy turmoil waiting for spring
waterlogged trees dialogue
in low key frequency



Ande Enochsson (b.1979) lives in Uppsala, Sweden. He writes short stories and poetry. Some of his pieces have been published in, for instance, Fosebook and Smokestack. Ande is an editor of Rufous Salon and Rufous Press.

Sunday, 1 May 2011

Ande Enochsson



Extract from my short story “Appearance”


“All the right doors were suddenly opened; it was like they waited for me.” He exhaled noisily. “I feel like an android, but that was that.”

“Well, you have me, here.”

He grinned. “Yes, it feels fine to drop out sometimes.”

“Drop out? You mean like a hippie?”

“Hippie.” He tasted the word. “I remember when these things were fashionable. Everybody loved retro fashion a couple of years ago. The clothes they had, it was like the 70s.” She did not respond, so they were just lying there silently. He felt a weak tremor in her leg which continued to her upper body. It’s cold here, he thought as he listened to the low sighing from the apple tree out on the yard. His neck creaked loudly as he moved and her foot touched him lightly over his face and mouth. He noticed her socks with its embroideries of comical scenes.

“Nice socks.”

“Thanks. I bought them in the youth section on sale years ago and have kept them since. I don’t know why, but I like them.”

He made a new attempt to pursue his story: “I would be better off if I stopped worrying and became more like you.”

She laughed. “Do you want to walk the tightrope?”

The damp-stained roof was musty dark. Its rough beam structure reminded him of cut-down trees. ”My body and I have not always been compatible. Hey, you haven’t told me much about yourself, he smiled. “How many have you been with? Were they serious affairs? How come you fancy older men?”

She sounded annoyed when she answered. “There’s really nothing much to say…I like autonomy above all.”

They were lying there quietly. She kicked him carelessly in the face as she got bored. He felt her impatience and asked what they should do. She answered absentmindedly that they could do whatever he wanted. He wondered if she really meant that and got a wild impulse to test her. He pressed his hand against the small of her leg and said with a forced voice: “Can you really prove that?” She sat up and eyed him.



Ande Enochsson (b.1979) lives in Uppsala, Sweden. He writes short fiction and poetry and maintains a blog named Faun. Some of his pieces have been published in, for instance, Fosebook and Smokestack. Ande is also an editor of the literary journal Rufous Salon.

Monday, 24 January 2011

Ande Enochsson



Saturation

you say you forgot
the low chroma
same hues between houses
inside awareness
constant low value
sandwiched between
various levels of fullness

it's phosphorescence karma
they will chew you according to
richness but
not the ripened concord grapes
there must be a limit

regret for disappointed male
this season made no breasts
elation is the bomb
under the Pashto's
chest

laughter is an older man's privilege
not because he's better in any way but
because he got lucky.