SVEN THE POET

The Name is Sven. Noaught many people can say this – oh they can say it, it just won’t be true…but I am Finland's greatest living poet, now that Parvo's gone. He died in a meteorite shower watching the aurora borealis , singing a poem of mine he claimed for himself, tragically. And you may say..you are Finland’s greatest poet – so what, you pimped up Thor Heyadayl, do not get between me and my beer, you queer.

But I can tell you that with my lines I have brought middle aged men to their knees begging their wives and mistresses for forgiveness. With my lines young women have come to know their first full body orgasm, with my lines, I caused Obamba to withdraw troops from Syria. With my lines I have transfigured spider webs into dream catchers and shone the light of my mind into the dark and hidden places of Man and even there and even so redeemed them..with my lines. With my lines I have caused other less exalted poets to weep with shame that they themselves had not uncovered such simple beauties, as I have with my lines.

 "...for what if, my darlings, I could show you that all this while.... you were in fact conducting regal camisoled lives, wandering through tryptamine Palaces, making love to one another in alcoves of pure onyx and sapphire, the throne of God your bedpost…"

SO, hear O Brunswick , now, the lines of Sven the poet. I am required first to warn you that you may be seized with a uncontrollable sobbing which is inevitable when shown the true Majesty of your beings, and what you have been doing all these aeons, how far you’ve fallen and how lost you’ve become in all your doings ….for what if, my darlings, I could show you that all this while, when you thought you were leading shitty lies in shitty rooms, lashed by lust, envy, derision - stumbling from life to life like an out of work supporting actor. listening to shitty poems, that all this time, as I said, you were in fact conducting regal camisoled lives, wandering through Tryptamine Palaces, making love to one another in alcoves of pure onyx and sapphire, the throne of God your bedpost….yes, you know what I’m talking about, But be careful…although Sven the poet he sings your dreams, as easily as he put you there, he can leave you there…forever..heheheh, and sooner or later, you will want your shitty lies back, because Heaven is not enough for you lot. You want Hell as well. You will burn sacrificial fires for my return. But don’t worry, as I vibrate the Old Norse lines … by the time I have finished, you will have relived a 1000 lives over a 100 centuries…you will have been Buddha, Mohammad, Christ and Shakespeare…you will have presided over civilizations and raised monuments to yourselves which in their turn interred to tombs …and by my last word, tired from hunting  the shadows of all your  doings , all you will want is peace, and Sven the poet will give it, he whose songs are sung by all of Asgard . 

 "I look favorably on those who have a PhD in me..."

At first you will hear something like a susurrus or sirocco or wind whispering come with me now do not be afraid, it is the way out of Ragnarok, go towards the light and do not look back. There will be sobbing and weeping and gnashing of teeth but this is normal, it is your old self grieving for itself, for it’s death… sob and weep and pour out your grief as a libation for me, and womenfolk, let them, do not judge, guys – do not hold back. Also,while your men are quietly weeping.. some of you ladies , usually the younger and fairer of you out of gratitude if nothing else, will want to spend the night with Sven the poet. This is unlikely but possible. You can pass up your resumes after the reading…I look favorably on those who have a PhD in me, or failing that, a degree in fellatio from the Sorbonne…. I will start in 3, 2 1…..