John Willy Kopperud

All the world went mute as the conqueror stooped down and found himself arrested by a gaze that contained nothing but all soldiers\' inevitable destination; that sea of

Transparent sparrow; your R\'s like switchblades cutting through each layer of Parisian existence from the clochardes under the bridges to the flocks of birds over cathedral

Given the premise that I\'m just a fictional character unable to transcend the poems syllables: How come this sudden urge to unbutton my shirt and abandon all work whenever my sweet wife

According to the critics I\'m just a fictional character unable to transcend the poems syllables. How come then this sudden urge to unbutton my shirt and abandon all work

With the sensation of being left to roam the countryside I began pondering this lack of capacity to give and receive love and my urge to tell the tallest of stories even

I observed them encompassed by mist in hushed conversation on the bridge not far from the old photo shop. Is anyone else aware of Charon\'s presence in our town?

Needlefurred hellhound; the scream a recognition - fear her company.

Watch their eyes. Keep standing in the shadow as they whisper. Who wants to begin to talk freely of the black hole that sucked them all in?

What a beak! Eager to tell of ancient seafarers leaving the port of Tyrus to spy ahead for murderous beasts lurking in waters unknown. And as madness drove Athenians

In this realm of televised sights, sounds and lives, I beg you to lend me a hand. That mountain blocks my view to the valley beyond.

Summer of \'67 at the Baltic Sea sleeping in a big canvas tent getting drunk all through a fortnight. And the Freie Deutsche Jugend all expected us to admire the work of their

Regarding: Egyptians dancing through pyramidal summer nights, listening for the ice-cream car\'s chiming bell as the radio descends on a wondrous

Train, train, heavy blue icon. A shrill whistle rattles the landscape. Wheels clatter against the rails. Metal wails in sharp curves. Once our weary heroes stood waiting on the

On the battlefield, after Spartacus\' last struggle with the Roman army, his body was never found. No one on the cross. A shadow looms over the empire. By a table at the

Some live for ages with bottomless hearts in humble dwellings by the river. Others cling to their finest china while trying to console an empty soul.

On these bloodied streets each side\'s wooden idol - calls for sacrifice.

Days, weeks, months? How come this accumulation of time? - Got a nose? Turn it up towards the Bible Black of a Nordic winter. And it will sniff the shape and