Jenny Luks Poet



Jenny Jens Luks is a journalist and poet.
Born 1974 in Finspång, living in Gothenburg, Sweden.
Food editor at the newspaper Syre.


Bona Folkhögskola, Motala:
Litterature and writing, 1994-1995

Journalism, 1997-1999
Writing supplementary year, 2002-2003


Working grant, Författarfonden, 2019



telephone: 046738337278

e-mail: info@jennyluks.se

facebook: jennylukspoet

twitter: jennylukspoet

Jenny Luks Journalist


© Jenny Luks 2020. All rights reserved.

from Parallellum, 2018

the moon is large tonight
larger than a slice of cheese
beepy with waterless lakes
forming the futility

I try to sort out real life
but find only tundra, a lonely cactus
who tells the story of mrs cactus
who passed in a cactus accident

I get allergic reactions
from plants with strange names
but we can share a soup
with eggplant and harissa

it’s an infectious sickness
we toast in a comforting drink
I say: "I'm sorry,
it must sting, sting deeply”

outside, an rattling oak
with sick demented branches
juniper grows beside
and midges cross between leaves

a roebuck finds a pillar of salt
an era passes, a torn yarn
a storm, with the hunger
twitching like a lizards arm

I find a sleeping place
filled with vomit, cigarette stubs
needles, garbage, tears
a wasteyard for corpses

an indigo spot in the eye, a ghost
that breathes against the vitreous
draws aimlessly in the moisture
small hearts in varied shapes

my pillow is a wheat bag
it itches and tickles
animals gather and shatter
breaks a tine against my finger

I don't want to die or maybe I do
willow tree, yellow flea
silhouetted as stencils
against old rust, pale frost

I think of a curtain, a knife
I think about sin and sooth
I see fluoride toothpaste
a tooth for a tooth

you form measle dots, small clots
"you can call me cactus"
a literal statement
from a plant with the tags outwards

it's rough to leave, freedom stings
freedom is nitty and falls into rags
woven from threads of overcooked yarn
from dissolving paperboard

you give me things that can be worn
but they flow with patience
life is a string of resin
paper that turns old and wounded

I draw along the texture
with ten fingers, nine toes
I want to start a war, an attack
a caughing without beginning, without end

tides bring endless algae
a cactus among knitted plants
and with a voice like a steel comb
he says: "leave, it must sting deeply"