Collecting strawberries

Collecting strawberries...

I simply had to collect all my memories. Just about everyone. All to the punest spot. Collect ém like strawberries, to put on a straw, like pearls of good stories. Well like poems, shining red like my once so ever blushing cheeks. Like that...like my skin was too deep to bury every good word. Words – was that it? Did I gather all words just to see them shine on their own?

Just to know that I was alive. I mean this obsession about words. Each and any word held so much, a mythology in every small letter. Letters were signs, were simply miraculous utterances deep down my chord, my talking apparatus, from mouth, tongue and throat. Living beings they were, each sign from each letter. They had gathered stuff from other people´s talks. From the fireside, stories to collect and bring out to the world, to people you once knew. And now? We all could have that obsession to tell the stories of our rare life. String on pearls and straws to put fruits upon.

Books. I mean...I gathered words and poems mostly. Each poem carried over an episode. Each verse rhymed into the music of linguistics. Each utterance had to go from person to person. That is why we read, talked, listened to gossip. Fine talks. Weird talks. Bad talks. Cultivated talks. Each gathered stuff like stuff are made of visions, dreams, something silvery and golden. Strawberries.

Yep, we even needed bad stories. I mean – gosh! How often did I not retell the worst of the worst? How often did not my enemy cross into my life and I had to turn her into a figure that I made into small units. Signs and symbols of what I could dread. Simply to carry over my obsessions that was this now foul story that had to let her down. Enemy. I collected every word she had said to me. And now…

When I picked out every tone of her voice I could turn her over to the court, the jury. Was I or was she the criminal? Only a word she was. Her story had sunken deep into the churchyard. She was a dead grave. She lied there in a gothic chamber, covered with moss. Alone in the dark. The ghosts all around ...in that peculiar place in West Yorkshire, among all places…

Dead, was she dead? Her hair as platina and as brilliant as the sun´s beams. So glittering once, that I had to pick her out of the deep halls of memories from her own land…

The moors. Brownish and barren. The sun had touched upon her graveyard. Dead. And now I had to let her memories out from the tomb...Why? Why not?

From death came a tone, a chord from a string. Music when her voice laid barren. She could no more tell gossip stories about me. Her profession had been her stories. Well yeah, she was a kind of poet, now long gone. And?

Her tone cracked into my own words, raped my tongue with a spear...a lance, a kind of historical thing, so long written down and spoked about.

She was the one that made me gather the English idiom. Gathered upon a straw to bring out once again. Had to do it…

Look at ´em! Look at all words, gathered into heaps of materia. Materia in each and any book. Always for her. There and again! Had to pick out her musical tone, like she was the high among the high. Like she thought her tone could make my own language look naked. Well I mean for sure. So I got into her music, into her robbery tricks and did imitate her means and methods. Which was? To gather other people´s talks and stories. Utterances. She had stolen words from me. Now I gave back to her what I had collected out ofthe chamber of MEMORY. That hall ofVikings. Crude Rude and Nude...Like she thought she had known us all. I gathered water drops from the Baltic sea. And now her army was all around this place. What can you give us in return?Stories? Poems? Words? Well uh! Linguistic had gathered sounds of nothingness from my chords, my death trauma. And into that Hall of Nothingness she had come. RUDE CRUDE Biude...She stole my life whilst she gathered my words and gave ém back to Scarborough. Had to fight her back.By picking up her knowledge and to bring it back to my own military force...I was of a soldier´s line…

Hu Slavic ancestry – worst for her. I hit hard when I gather her knowledge out of the history books. See now...Her laughter. I pick out her giggling from a room clad in sombre tones. Words clad out of me...

As she stole all that I had placed and put down in big heaps of tones...as she nibbled at my own heritage simply because it was like her DNA. So I took back each and every queendom from her voice – THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE...forbidden. Oh my prince of Wales. Was he now my friend??? Well u he yeah he was a kind of chap to me. I was on the side of the broken and downtrodden… Followed after me with her speare, an Aristocratic spear that was. That is how I made up my mind. I began stealing and collecting Shekespearian sonnetts...And! Well uh yeah that is about it...Words that was so authentic that ah well it was too high up for me. Which made me begin climbing up to the courts of HEAVEN. The Appollo place where music was made. I gathered each and every footstep up to that high Godforsaken place. The muse looked at me. The muse of poetry I suppose. She let me into her HALL OF VIKINGS! A place for April fools. A fool like me…..It did seem crude to follow after a Viking Godess. Anyhow. I felt like just doin´it...Well uh how about a taste of beer??? but on a second thought i made up my mind. NO MORE BEER FOR ME. NOT ONE GLASS OF WINE OR VODKA: The inspiration had from now on to be collected like they were strawberries. As simple as that, although the work…

But then again. As all these words that were collected had built my life, your life, just about any life – then I could not let words fall off me. Could not let ´em go. Not at all. They were my obsession, my dreams, my everything. So in this Hall of MEMORY all was there, for always. Can´t let go of words. Can´t hide...no nothing. Hope that the tones are carried over once again...with spears and ….well uh hum well oh no….Strawberries that hang from the church…

etc etc etc….