Risto Oikarinen Biography

When you still had a name, you let the ice bite into the bedrock and spit out stones here and there, to the moor and maternity ward. For you so loved me,
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Santa Lucia came to me in a dream: the scratches on God's records are playing in the martyr's stereos, said Lucia and woke me with a kiss, I rose from my bed and spread my mother's queen bee honey on toast, the doorbell rang, a girl rushed into my home,
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A chalk-white bird fell off its orbit, crashed into the ground like a meteorite, cracked its neck and turned into rock in the desert. The sun sunk into a cloud of ash, dinosaurs vanished and my family rose to the desert sand, there by the white rock.
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An autumn sonata on ownership. The birch belongs to the courtyard, the yard to birch leaves, the leaves to the leaf blower, the blower to the gardener, the gardener to the city, the city belongs to the state, the state to no one, no one to human, human to his body,
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Taivas on purettava, puskettava traktorilla portin päältä, vangittava verkkoon varjottomat linnut, elämän puu on pilkkeiksi hakattava, puun hedelmiä nauttivat marttyyrit sekä pelkästä armosta pelastetut, heidät on ensin oksille hirtettävä, revittävä taivaanmaasta lapset, valtakunnan omistajat, varjottomat päivänkakkarat, myytävä maljakkoon isoäidin pöydälle, aina rakastettava, vain parasta ajatteleva isoäiti on pullantuoksuun lukittava. Taivaallinen mummonmökki, ei ullakkoa, kellaria, kuoleman varjoa, on poltettava.
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