a date gone bad

I'm drunk and I can't hold an erection
She's fat and she's naked in my bed
I say 'you are fat'
And she starts crying

I feel like a total jerk
She's fat, she's naked in my bed and now
She's crying as well
My timid hard-on of course disappears

Wait, I meant it like something sweet
Like, Winnie the Pooh is fat and he is cute
She won't take that bullshit
It's of course drunk blabber I just made up

She's fat
She's naked
She's crying
But she ain't dumb

I start sucking her nipples
Pink, extra large
I get aroused
She says nothing

When my erection is decent
I try to go for her
And then she kills all inspiration again
I don't lubricate well, she says

Fuck you, I say, you fat pig
She cries again
It feels like ages there
And then
She gets dressed and leaves

I'm drunk
I don’t even feel like jerking off
I go back to my bed naked
I fall asleep and try to forget


ian svensson (Detroit, MI, 1974)

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envious jealous impotent

gertrude stein can tell you what the box is like in her modish lavish style — i can tell you what living inside a box is. nothing to be proud of. nothing to brag about. twenty five square feet —bathroom included— of pure solitude and seclusion. t.s. eliot can break new literary grounds, win praise, the nobel prize, change the poetry world forever writing about a waste land — i can tell you what living in a real waste land is, true coexistence with flies and feces, organic refuse decomposing at an arm's length, the never ending stench of a dead horse, the slippery path, oily muds and grease. nothing to be proud of. nothing to brag about. allen ginsberg can howl and tell you what this skeleton said and what that other skeleton said. i can tell you what a really soul chilling howl sounds like: it's the outcry of a mother mourning over her dead baby, a brand new skeleton wrapped in dry flesh. a brand new skeleton that will never ever utter a single word. nothing to be proud of. nothing to brag about. poetry is embedded with a kind of subtle treason. the beauty of the profane. the lightness of words. the banality of beauty. i am deeply resented. envious. jealous. impotent. boxed. blocked. actually, not being able to tell you anything but a hint of my pathetic self.


ian svensson (Detroit, MI, 1974)

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decline, stagnate

on a friday i decline, in the weekend i stagnate; funny you should ask 'cause you eat and yet you starve, looking dull behind those inch thick spectacles. a myriad reasons i could cite for being uncontent, unconvinced, unpleasant, unmarried, unscrupulous; girls always turn their backs on me. rejection, sometimes, makes you even stronger, self sufficient. so another weekend's coming and you have no plans, no friends, no nothing. devoid of attention you turn to yourself and then you no longer decline. you don't even stagnate. you decay. you just decay. and i would help myself having you over for a beer maybe, and some pointless, stupid conversation. but i can't look past your spectacles, which bring back my deformed and sad looking image. i can't look past the little cookie crumbles tightly adhered to the outskirts of your ugly mouth. what went wrong i don't know. i guess we could only multiply our miseries. i'll walk you to the metro station, if that makes you happy. it will be the only thing i have done for someone in the last five years. i can't look past. another weekend is coming. i stand up and see all pods are empty. shitty pods. little cells of mediocrity. and you standing there. i can't look past. another weekend. i don't decline. i decay.


ian svensson (Detroit, MI, 1974)

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