Unpopular opinion


Do you shiver before you wake?
I think I saw a premonition
a swarm of cicadas, erupting from my bowels
like glimmering guts squeezed out trough a meat mincer

I think we don’t have a lot of time.
Stumbling newborns trying to outgrow their cosmic cradle,
now dangling in a net of stellar intestines,
where the gift of self consciousness became our worst nightmare

I think that I, too, am too much meat
and not enough self-analytic thought
a respected artist will starve himself,
but I prefer to eat


I actually do believe violence can be resolved with more violence
and I don’t believe in soulmates
(some days, god forbid, I don’t even believe in souls)
I hate only because I’m full of love.
I have learnt to expect the worst, yet,
the world disappoints me again and again,
like a lover who can’t stop fucking the neighbor
I keep giving it another chance,
Not because I’m so goddamn merciful, mind you, but let’s be honest,
where else would I go?

I stuff my throat with spun glass until I can’t feel the words spilling out
And just when I think I’ve reached that point of sensorial nirvana,
I wake up with a headache, a new cognitive STD and a renewed will to fight

I think there’s an olive-skinned girl sweating inside of me
I beat her up every night, trying to reforge her into a weapon,
then wake up with the hammer next to my pillow,
and wads of what-could-have-been splattered over the floor,
I weep and point fingers, appointing others the blame

You, Sir! You are a fucking asshole and that really stresses me out!

I know I am what they call “good at bad”.
But my beauty is not in the deterioration,
not in the nights spent swallowing scissor blades and oh lord why me:s,
but in how I show up again the next morning, staggering because of the teethed wounds on my hips,
chug a galleon of java and demand a rematch
I don’t think there’s another way to say

Me. I.
I am.


Unravel me – Conversation from Captivity (Collaboration with DarkGingerbread)


Him: It feels like sex but it looks like an autopsy. Peeled and candied like a fruit,
straitjacket of fingertips stretching me wide from every direction.

“Is it over soon? Did you call 911?”

Her: I hover in the bathroom doorway, rolling naked in revelry at the art I have made of him. I can’t tell if it’s the peroxide on my hair, or the oxy chased down my throat with Scotch.

He’s bleeding all over the ice I’ve so lovingly packed him in, shivering himself to one final sleep as his hot crimson mana seeps quietly onto my tiled floor.

Him: “I think… I need an ambulance, or something.”

I cling to the edges of the tub. I don’t know how they’re supposed to lift me up from here.
I tried to reach for my phone earlier, but when I tried to bend over the edge, my left hand loosened and fell to the floor. It is now sweating on the carpet like a pile of half-molten ice cream,

and I
keep burning.

Her: Perhaps it’s that fire – raging against the dying of his light, held so deeply encapsulated within his beautiful boy’s eyes, that makes me wish I hadn’t filleted that smooth warm skin. I can see the throbbing gristle between his now twitching legs, held in thrall beneath the ice bath. Maybe I should fetch another back from the freezer.

Him: “Stay still. Quit moving around like that,” she says as she pours another bucket of ice onto my shivering torso, but the mold won’t hold and my fingers stick together like glue,
stomach bulging, internal organs being squashed around like vegetables in a stew,
so that I might claim a new shape. God, I want to be made anew.

Her: I tell him to stop moving so much. I’m trying to imagine whether love could mutate from captivity. He’s ruining the effect, while he renders my pink bathmat sanguine. He needs to know why we became locked together in so deadly a tryst.

Him: I am no more than vessel now,

skin, blood, and Vaseline

Her: I wish I could heal you

(Him: I’d rather dissolve quietly)

Her: if only for the pleasure of gifting you such exquisite pain all over again.

(Him: than start all over again)



So my good friend Steve (DarkGingerbread here on wordpress) and I cooked up something a little different for a collaboration idea. 

The prompt: A one-night-stand takes a horrible turn when the poor man finds himself melting (literally) from the inside. 

Steve wrote the woman’s part, I wrote the man. We pieced together our dialogues of this peculiar event. This is the result. 



Figments of a Mania – Henna Sjöblom

My newest work published on Sudden Denouement literary collective!

A Global Divergent Literary Collective



I saw her in the dark of my eye

stretched out on a polyester blanket,

puffed-up cheeks and threads of pink bubblegum stuck to her hair
the /maggot-eaten/ stockings barely covering up the /cigarette burns/ along her legs
riffles trough the pages of the /holy/ bible, decides she doesn’t have time

patient may sometimes experience feelings of irritability,                   grandiosity, or an increase in sexual desires

I masturbated to the image that night
and called /my own/ name as I came, arrogant god that I am,
wrapped up in my own, gluttonous plane of existence
I would grab a stake and drive it trough my uterus
So that my guts would spill out, drenching your immobilized body
beneath me
and you would cry out /in bliss/
knowing the

true exemption

of being defeated


View original post 197 more words



I had a dream I was at a party.
The lights were low, all the flooring made of glass
everyone around me were previous versions of myself
Someone flashed a camera in my face
I didn’t want my picture taken
because I was ashamed of what I might not yet be
I told the 5-year old me there was no one waiting for her
and nothing bad would happen if she stopped waking up at midnight
to check the dark corners of her room
I warned the eleven-year old me not to cut her hair
or pout her lips at the school photographer
the 16-year old me’s all had bruises, corsets, and striped thighs
they were dancing alone, crying, and yelling that they were feeling great
I gave them each three shots of vodka
and the number to the hospital emergency clinic
I turned to my incarnation from last year,
and opened my mouth to tell her
“the answer is yes”
but just then a squint-eyed boy grabbed my arm
and dragged me out of the apartment.
Under the bright urine-colored streetlight, in the tapping November rain,
he lit a blunt, turned to me and told me he was god
and that I had exceeded my limit of legal intervention
he said I was losing time
trying to redeem the already forgiven
I cried while he pulled a deep breath, the sweet, prickling scent of marijuana filling the dampened air,
I cried because I didn’t want to go back
nor did I have time to be anyone’s Jesus
I cried while he just stood there and got high
and when I woke up the fog had been lifted from my eyes
it’s not that I don’t care, not that I don’t wish for a
redemption, to try again
it’s just that I have grown sick and tired of this place
that I’ll never be anything but incomplete,
leaving behind unmade beds, hair-filled sinks and broken hearts,
signs of a calamity
still in process


I woke up feeling ferociously creative today and this just kind of spurted out as I sat down in front of my computer.

Now someone hates me

You ever run into someone on town and instantly get a feeling that they hate you? It happened again.
I’m not sure, of course, we locked eyes only for a brief moment; I, standing at the checkout, balancing a bag of Cheetos on my arm and my wallet nailed between my chin and shoulder, desperately trying to insert my Visa card in the reader while answering the phone,
and you, a few inches away, your eyes glistening with disgust,
drifting over my frayed jeans clasping delightfully over my ass, my Dimmu Borgir t-shirt and the black eyeliner smeared out a tad around my left eye.
The mere sight of me has awoken a rage within you,
a fatal combination of sexual frustration and a mere lust for power
You reach forward, making sure to let your arm stroke along my back although there’s plenty of space around us, pressing just a little at the tailbone,
a reminder

that you own me.

Walking home from a party that night, sobbing silently into my phone speaker.
Did something happen, you ask.
No, I say. I’m just menstruating. How else to explain this feeling of insufficiency? Should have drunk less. Should have acted more intellectual. Wow. Should certainly not have laughed at that dick joke. They must all think me so shallow.

Now what did I do? I run it trough in my head. Did I degrade the entire female population again?

Sometimes the road home just isn’t long enough.

I’m trying to make the best of it,
but the truth is,
I hate being in this body
that bleeds, bulges, produces hormones at an excessive rate
I hate not being strong enough to push you away when you grab me
I hate that you make me hate myself

I buy clothes I feel sexy in, then decide not to wear them
The pile of shame is growing in my closet
I spend nights silently apologizing in my mind
Sorry for being weak
Sorry for being disgusting (And, simultaneously, so outrageously irresistible that men can’t help but follow me in the street.)

I had a dream about killing you.
About kicking you down from your stupid bike,
pushing you to the ground,
and drive my plateu heels into your temples again and again,
until you were nothing but a wet, manly stain on the pavement

I laugh in my solitude
at the thought of tearing you apart
everything seems funny until
you point to the cleft between my legs and say it’s improper
I say I have needs
of being seen, being appreciated,
maybe improperly penetrated,
I say,
I’m not a virgin
I like sex
I like to feel attractive
even in my solitude

But nothing’s private, nothing’s solely mine
my reproductive organs, my sexuality, not even my personality
it’s all just mud for the dogs to wallow in
Just what did I do to become so wretched?
Let me show you! I scream into the hands trying to hush me
I can be tough!
I can be secretive and hard-to-get and intellectual if that’s what you want! Just give me a bloody chance!

This is when
you say that I fail to control my emotions
antagonizing my own efforts to bring legitimacy to myself
I’d like to say you don’t know what you’re talking about
So what if I’m a bit in love with you?
So what if I dream of you sometimes
And so what if I touched myself to the thought of you –
Well, not you. Never you.
Just you, thinking that I’m
Valid! I’m still valid! I’m not stupid.
I know when to play silly,
when to giggle,
when to lift my skirt and exclaim: “Ooh! How unfortunate!”
When to moan and pretend I’m having an orgasm,
just so that you won’t feel bad about yourself.
I’ve been raised to satisfy, whether it be by
smiling, agreeing, or just shutting up.
Does the thought of me offering you all of this make me
less worthy in your eyes?
In that case,
maybe I’ll just hate
you too.

Annotations on a post-murder


Welcome, dear Sirs.
Have a seat.
Today we’re gonna learn how to slaughter rabbits.
Cut along the dotted lines, where the flesh is the most tender. If needed, lift the skirt a bit, thereafter poke a hole in the stockings using a sharpened nail.

Rabbits are esteemed survivors. If you are swift, you can manage to snatch one just before it leaps into adulthood,
but be aware that the same rabbit might return
years later, standing in your doorway at 4am
covered in gasoline, bloodshot eyes and an AK-47 pointed at your skull
when you wake up,
gasping for air, and stumbling trough the balcony door
you may find them in the smoke of your cigarette, fondling down the inside of your throat,
or on the sticky pages of the adult magazines on the bedside table,
or in the hand that grabs and caresses you in the dark, while you lay naked
and itching,
caressing, pumping,
desperately aching to feel something,

When was your first time?
Who taught you?
Graceful rabbits, watch them go,
march in line towards the water’s edge
bleeding cotton candy and crying phosphor

We are the bloodied thighs
and empty beds
ripped off polyester ears
painkillers chugged down with absinthe
in the early morning
We are persistent.
If you cut trough our stomach, our hearts may sometimes go on beating
for 40,
maybe 60 years,
but always a little faster than before,
in painful awareness
knowing what it’s like to have life ripped out by your own hands
and never forgetting the sharp intrusion
steel to flesh,
and you,
do you blush
before swallowing
or do you just

Suckerpunch, the Second Coming



Have you ever tasted true revenge?
Ever feared the loss of a wound more sacred
than the hollowed out palms of Christ?

I’ll tell you, I dip my knuckles in holy water after each defeat,
so that soon my skin will be impenetrable. I charge my gun with self-pity,
coat my blade with spite.
Don’t talk to me, I grin.
I am self-destructive.

Don’t get me wrong.
I’m not stigmatizing, and I can’t be a martyr, as I never bowed to anyone.
Who the fuck set the rules anyway?
I’m a bloody artist, displaying slashes as exhibits in a showcase,
and I take pride in my performance,
but presenting wounds won’t omit the truth,
and the truth is
I’ve never felt better

Than the night I woke up in the hospital,
chains rattling around my wrists.
Nurses with faces made of paint scrapers.
Is that what I am?
An exhibit
in need of restoration?
Or the answer to the sarcastic questions
generally asked by horny men around their 50’s?

I’ll tell you what I am.
I am too big for this place.
Acid-tripping deicide angel,
fast-forwarding trough my own rapture.
I am what mourning widows sing of
on their way to the gallows pole.
We’re the girls that already died once.
We don’t need anybody else.