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Autumn confluence

Kristoffer Ehrnstrรถm Lundqvist Bey


to women


”Autumn confluence” All rights belong to Kristoffer Ehrnström Lundqvist Bey™ Cover, design, editing and writing by Kristoffer Ehrnström Lundqvist Bey™ Published by Riverhouse Press™, 10/01 2020 www.riverhousepress.org Contact: info@riverhousepress.org Donations (pay-pal): donations@riverhousepress.org Förlag: BoD Books on Demand, Stockholm, Sverige Tryck: BoD Books on Demand, Norderstedt, Tyskland ISBN: 9789178511938


Autumn confluence

Kristoffer Ehrnstrรถm Lundqvist Beyโ„ข


August, september 9

Frame of Thought Foreword 59 Introduction 75 Frame of Thought 85

Etymon ”I think...” (about thinking) ”... therefore I am” 149 Negation and objectivity 157 Sweden and the Three Crowns 169 The pancreas and Light 188 Gog and Magog 204 ”Morberry” 218 The elegy of the two eyes and the realm of reaction 224 ”The golden calf” 241

In conclusion 260


August, september


I


Wishes have sometimes been made in regards to you not belonging anywhere. You might have wished to utter words, unaware of their motivation, just to say them, throw them on the 12


surroundings and watch them brake the connection to our former distrust in shapes. A city cased in glass, fluid, mutable behind the surface of early memories

The patience in a message that reaches its destination in time isn’t present in its awareness. It is a train station that wants to free itself from its all to well known tracks. Stillness preceds movement, she says, even if a shadow sometimes seems to claim a lasting pattern. Sun followed without coherent 13


markers, we only really touch the ground where we once walked

Is it enough to live in words? The surroundings derogate orderly towards prepositions, small discontinuations of bearing. The edge of a mountain shall become the last metaphor if the page is to be likened with snow. If not relativity - what else is there to explore? My life is your life, that is how you create me. An image of you through me as relative your image. Birch tree leaves that only fall when there is ground around its autumn. A windstill assertion. That is why I remain seemingly distant, she says. I need to explore the relationless relationship, the words of language will lead me there and then to you, since these words just became yours

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If you think I’m looking for G-d then you’ve read lines of mine and the world and through their interconnecting space become thouroughly informed of the answer. It is right there, you see. In the absence of absolute formulations. You just know it too much, she says, that’s why you forgot how to know. The great inbetween. But in relation to what? ”Nothing” cannot be more or less. The middle is always furthest away, and closest. Nothing new under sun ripe sayings, hiding. Nothing ordinary has made these suprises definite; heaven just as dark behind the words day, clouds and nacre shimmering echoes. I can only return to a beginning already in search of me, she says, nothing more or less, a parent who never forgot the child but let herself be denied in the wonders of the playground

We need to own what we forgive. Validate the shape of emotion, hold it like a sky in our hand and release the wideness to its shapeless desire. I wish I wished many things. That my mind was a complex mesh of algorithms and cataclysmic solutions. Something intricate to paint an author’s room. But all I want seems contained in the word my narrative circulates so self preserving. A book written around a word. Mantained but trembling we paint layers of expectations on the 15


truth that’s never allowed to dry, become second-hand and wither to have a reflective history

I imagine the poem like a livingroom. Without cealing. The spaces hopefully not saturated by inner mess or further assesments (rivers, clouds and furniture need imaginary space aswell). All forms of enthropy is subjective but the trees at the end of the street seldom grow sideways. Is there anything other then chaos to contrast order? Outer control opposite the inner works that preceds the reconquest of self. I don’t know if I’m swimming in summer or swimming when the summer converged with water. A dull scent of sweet brooks, soaked water lilys. Your feet, wet footsteps along the jetty

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&

�Nothing is mine, she says,

it only travels through me on remarkable days.

Theonesleastvisible for the ones looking for contents.

To know something you must first embrace it. But you cannot embrace the unknown;

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therefore,youembraceyourself and observe your interaction with nothingness when it seeks itself through the content of

your remarkable days�

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