Garden of Trauma/Traumehagen


I know all the plants

living and growing

in my Garden of Trauma.

Flowers beautiful,

thorns sharp,

and I can handle the sight of blood.

Wandering in the Garden of Trauma,

I collect knowledge about the plants that grow here.

Their poison, their medicine.

Like sharp-tailed scorpions

they poke holes

in any new or old boil.

The rotting and the sprouting.

Tombstones covered in moss

and framed by wild bushes.

It sleeps and grows in restless symbiosis.



Jeg kjenner til alle de vekster

som bor og gror

i mn Traumehage.

Blomster vakre,

torner skarpe,

og jeg tåler å se blod.

Vandrende i Traumehagen,

samler jeg kunnskap om vekstene som gror her.

Deres gifter, deres medisin.

Som skorpioner med skarpe haler

stikker de hull

på enhver ny eller gammel byll.

Det råtne og det spirende.

Mosegrodde gravstener

omgitt av ville buskas.

Det sover og gror i en hvileløs symbiose.


About Moods: Flowers And Flesh-Eating Plants



The will to compensate,

or rather the urge to compensate,

is a strong one.

Albeit a destructive one.

It stirs up the soil

in which you try to grow some flowers

before the season is over.

The season is your mood, your current flow;

the current which flows

right below the surface.

the surface of the facade

that you keep

in order to survive.

Each current so brief and so overwhelming,

there is not enough time to learn how to care for these potential flowers.

Each current starts so optimistically,

but all I am left with, are self destructive powers.

These roses turn into flesh-eating plants

All the stardust pollination from the flowers

turn to acid, sharp teeth

the plant eats all my attempts at happiness

steals them

and keeps them out of my reach