Autobiographical poetry of my youth, such as it is


The library slip machine is my only friend.
Only she wants to know what I am reading.
Only she desires that I finish reading soon,
and hurry back to see her again.
It is her love notes and no one else’s
that I find in old pockets, saying:
Do you remember that Wednesday?
Wasn’t it wonderful?


We wake up early on exam morning. Before we remember the exam we think for a moment that perhaps we are going on a long trip. But exam it is. Let’s wear the black sweater as usual. No time to shower or have breakfast. Just an apple to go. It’s late December so the apple is small and green and sour. At the exam we get a desk in a corner where we can watch the snow and listen to the institutional ventilation. Oh, right, the exam. Just make some shit up. And let’s remember to put our name in the top right corner of every sheet. There we go. Now we are waiting for the bus. We don’t have toes anymore. Maybe we discuss answers with that Chinese girl who is always asking us to play badminton. She thinks eight thirds can’t be right. Here’s the bus now.


Today I found half a pistachio shell
on which I drew a face.
Then I gave him a mouth as well,
in case he had something to tell.
A bird came here and picked at me,
said mister pistachio shell,
but now I have a mouth
and he shall pick no more,
for if he tries I’ll cast a spell
of a pain I know all too well:
his beak shall crack and break in two
like me and the other half shell.