Clean sheets are ready,
But the cat has other plans,
Bed is occupied.
Clean sheets are ready,
But the cat has other plans,
Bed is occupied.
Why, Mr. Breivik,
Why, oh, why,
Why did all of those,
Children have to die?
I know that you hate us,
Us immigrant scum.
Despise and berate us,
Since we continue to try,
To threaten your culture,
And your way of life.
We’re vultures and also,
Blood-sucking parasites.
I’m not Norwegian,
So therefore I’m scum,
Who must live in a filthy
Disgusting old slum.
I get it. It’s cool.
Go right on believing,
We’re sucking you dry,
If it makes you feel good,
And your hate justified.
It’s okay to hate us.
Not against any rules,
But, why, Mr. Breivik,
Why so needlessly cruel?
They were children,
Who only just,
Started high school.
So, why, Mr. Breivik,
Why, oh, why?
Why did all of those,
Children have to die?
Like most Americans, my ancestors came from many different countries. There’s a little German here and a little Welsh there, but I happen to be more Norwegian than anything else. Until recently I’ve never really identified in any particular way with that country. However, since yesterday afternoon I’ve felt more Norwegian than I’ve ever felt before. My Norwegian great-grandfather, uncles, aunts and cousins, all of whom are a part of me, must be in mourning. Of the nearly 100 people killed in yesterday’s attacks in and around Oslo, at least 84 of them were teenagers at a summer camp on the island of Utøya.
It’s so hard to think about those kids without breaking down and crying. What must it have been like for them? Nearly 700 of them were gathered together and huddled around television sets and radios, listening for news of the bomb attacks that had just taken place in Oslo, about 20 miles away from where they were on the island. A tall, blonde, blue-eyed man dressed as a policeman approached them and asked them to come over to him. He said he was there as part of the investigation of the bomb attacks and probably had news of their families back home. Naturally they trusted him without question. Why shouldn’t they? He was a policeman come to help them, so of course they eagerly went over to him.
He then produced several weapons, including a machine gun and shotgun, and opened fire on them. The teenagers ran in terror for their lives and some even jumped into the water in an attempt to swim to the mainland, but he continued to mow them down, randomly, and indiscriminately. Eventually he was caught, but not before he had managed to kill dozens of people, some of whom were as young as sixteen years old. At the time of writing the search continues for more victims, but the current body count is 91. This includes the 84 found at the summer camp, and seven from the bombings in Oslo.
Now everyone is trying to figure out who is responsible and why it happened. Was this the act of Muslim extremists? At this point it does not seem very likely. Did the gunman act alone or is he a member of an anti-Jihadist group? Again this does not seem to be the case. For my part I find it hard to speculate on the motives behind the attacks. I cannot identify on any level with someone who would commit such atrocious acts of carnage. The typically Norwegian-looking gunman Anders Behring Breivik, has been described by the media as a right wing Christian fundamentalist, based on his own description of his religious and political beliefs on Facebook: “Christian” and “Conservative.”
So what, though. He’s a Christian and a Conservative, but so are millions of other people, none of whom are capable of the committing the atrocities that took place yesterday afternoon. I’ve been asking myself over and over why this happened. How could anyone do this? What would lead someone to commit these atrocities? It’s so frustrating because there are no answers to these questions and the violence seems so pointless.
If he had any kind of agenda then how on earth would committing these acts gain any sympathy or support for it?
On the esteemed behalf,
Of everyone here,
On this, the start,
Of your fortieth year,
Have a happy day!
Dear tentacled one,
Full of friends,
And drinks, and cake,
And fun!
These are your roots.
She said: your family.
And I stare at them.
Until my eyes burn,
From lack of blinking.
Stare at the faces,
Black and white smiles,
In the old photograph.
Frozen long ago,
In a moment in time.
These people are long dead.
Gone before I was born,
And yet, they feel
Strangely alive,
As if across distance
They have travelled,
And across time.
It seems so improbable.
How could they be dead,
And yet alive?
Here, but not here?
And suddenly,
I understand why.
I am alive.
And I am here.
And I am them.
Do I have a soul?
I do not know.
We cannot know such things.
But I’d like to think,
It is not me,
But my soul,
That rhymes and sings.
The source of all my pain.
Is difficult to explain.
It comes from many places.
Fills up my empty spaces.
That’s why I hide here often,
Inside my invisible coffin.
There is nothing but nothing here.
Nothing to see, nothing to fear,
Nothing to do and nothing to say,
I just lie here quietly and decay.
I rarely pause to wonder,
Nor do I often ponder,
Matters spiritual.
Such as the soul.
Do we have one?
Is it immortal?
That may or may not be true.
But if I had a soul to give,
I know what I would do.
I’d wrap my soul up in my heart,
And give them both to you.
I came across this the other day when I was going through some old Word documents on my computer’s hard drive. There was a mysterious file named “Poetry,” which contained, among other things, the original free-verse version of “The Sadness Worm,” which I thought had been lost forever.
The green worm that lives in sadness,
Wants to find a human heart.
For it craves the taste of it the most.
So very bitter the taste of sadness is.
And no wonder.
The bitterness is the worm you taste.
Its bitterness is the poison of sadness.
The sadness worm is made of it.
A parasite that lodges in your heart,
Eating and eating it all away.
Each time you swallow bitterness,
You swallow the sadness worm.
It eats and eats and eats your heart,
Until it is all gone.
And only a lump of sadness remains.