Little Green Spiral

Folio Fragment

Bjorn Bengtsson




Color on the quells madly (words written in and out of sleep) (out of reach) (way way out baby sleep)



Heard a voice like birth wet with wind whisper listen. So the door slipped open where trees whistled into the moment. Leaves as universe clothed verdants choice their thoughts. I think trees feel must and see all. Those eyes.


Cyclical cyclical repetition is nature is spirit in life all of it. Yes. Encompass the holy natural birds nesting on some plane branched between you, I, and the moon. Cawing, cooing, throat, as lovers do.

New page of nothing becoming and I think well that’s exciting quite I said quiet the head. Scurry over the lizards on the brick wall of built up dreams. Stretch them up and down and cut and restore. Breathe at least 7 miles long. Exhale and whoosh, web caught in and out breath and broke down the walk with reality. Have I seen?

I’ve drowned in the ocean of the night sky’s eye. I awoke rounded upon the whit pupil; The soul’s sleep it spoke in seeing for what when do all the night works awaken. Are these locked in a dream. Where is the key against another life’s memory? Responsive to spirits only! Love is the grandeur (should we final wake and mend these broken page’s eyes. Spilling blue all over –into nonsense-) honesty yet. Yet here’s what happens when white clouds encompass overhead. The bed sinks and covers the moonlight. Bask and dance child. Dream and prance in flower field minds. Goodnight.


I only see clouds and clouds only see me. They play at my shape. The wind moves seethes waters new being grooves golden goings and called white like pianos on fingers on night.


As though the blue were in tones and spoke of the depth. By stars, by sky, by my eye to have seen it all is to have seeen one. For feeling profundity call upon no newness sun. Excitement in spirit writes for clouds split and poured in looping visions the blue. Watch the clouds split. Been before and is it the same?

Can I hold the spirits hand tighter please hold mine – my mind looser. Flora hexagon was gone growing line raised bed is this garden. Is only dream I question. Some clouds covering a man – reflective – peeking his face out of his shadow. I don’t understand and that’s okay he said. It’s all here. Anyhow, how are the koi pond.


Feel the soft lips of sleep. How wet like water submerges the presence in the embrace of itself unbridled. Do the sleep song and open your mouth for the big dark. Call into that man, that echo. A friend. One who can graciously hold silence and solitude.


I’ve wandered here’s an alike, upon a sea of clouds. Sent rains of sorrow for still artist – first warm then cold. Crawl inside and find he hearth – the homely interior fire. A face in the flame and watch embers dance through their worship. Out the window a leaf waves with the wind and whispers glory. Go see soil, seed stem, the years of upward reach and hold the hand. Feel veins bulge from life in abundance – life in love. Flowing into goodnight.


Hello moon my friend folium faithful eye. Watch and whisper away the phantoms drips oracular dead of the lake the time the outside the light switch. Look love in that woman. Colored on the floor and left for canvas forever said the all Lord. The holy all worship one. I love. Lord you are Lord.


Yeah so spirited to talk inside and through me. Maybe the days are not of all old only one test to sleep or wall. I choose only to dream to dream in the color of love sunset gone now pink eyes.


What’s written on those hours? Could the unfamiliar be just as familiar to me who finds comfort to the decadent company of a stranger.

Look I’d love to chat and stay. It’s only love is the song of my sleep. That golden glimmer dress of my dreams. I can and cannot be awake! Am for the love anyhow anyway! Can. I’d love for love to be my only endeavor and that it is. And in that I’ll do all and any of the days. Those hours for it. For love.

Stories in the ceiling black space receding. Some skipping preserved.

Great golden calf must fall. Rolling thunder drops. The eyes. Takes the mind do feel every the sea. The cloud the pillow rise.


Stand on the edge of a universe or at least the grass. Look into the abyss – be touched by the lanterns in darkness. Into it lovely we are leaves lifting in the wind carrying ever moment. The flowers everything her eyes – starry eyes –

My love bless their sleep. Up on a star a dream good color and way in the light okay. Maze mind sleep too and drift into another some nowhere abyss of love and loss. Of love.


Oh these words spirit. Of procession I am only a fisherman down the reed line through the reflection of sun and moon. Into the unknown. (unknown). Our waters. The lake of dreams. I wish to kiss all the stars. To walk that special road in nearness. To kiss every star and know their name from their lips. Never needing write it. To hold a forever gaze in bed, listen to rain. On one occasion as I can remember I was a child – Viking size my adventure. My blue, broken engine, and spider nest. I paddled slowly, sketching an outline of the lake. Saw lines – just eyes. I lowered mine and dip their heads in and not for breath, for the sake of beauty of both. Ducks did think me strange. The water thin, so slightly a deep see see through green, or whatever amassed the beneath and above. Trees fly and then screamed to encompass, to hold up the upper and dream their watchful eye on mine.

Soon a cloud so covered the orange on the water, all there grew dark, call years or tides felled at once and I had to slip between the spiders crawled and turtles sunk, the boat creaked. Below, my eyes watching a mass of movement carry steady, bigger and beneath me.

It’s stride wonting, taking up the whole sky, the air gave rise to a dark. For a moment, frozen I watched. Thought on death. But then I ran, each paddle skipping, tracing ripples longer along the water. The trees giggled, the sun still shone – my child manner acquiescence with the unknown. That long lake tread over the blue azure sea of my dreams – a dreamscape of ever innocence. Of eyes written long before mine. A quivering on the water.


Shake by her winds. Her hands hold sleep dearly. Her cheeks mountains. Eyes moons. Hair midnight river.

Awake and find she’s still sleeping. Still writing beauties and color on the quells madly, wells made to keep her in – her plentitude is forever reaching. The stars gather like floating lanterns.