Traumas Linger

Emotions linger–
Emotions of the dead,
Traumatized Spirits
what was meant to cure,
cure people of their traumas.
It lived through The Great War, and The Second,
Vietnam, and The Gulf.
But rather than lay their broken bodies to rest,
they broke their spirits–
causing trauma,
and eternal unrest.
They say there’s no rest for the wicked.
Here we find the victims of the wicked,
restless and victimized,
by those wicked
hired to relieve the burdens
of those already traumatized.
Enter the halls and feel,
the relentless grief, the pain and lingering trauma
caused by our so called “Healers.”
Here victims of victims
live on restlessly,
and all those wicked,
whose job it was to relieve them
of their troubles,
rest quietly in their graves,
marble tombstones,
and inheritance for those they left behind.

Traumas Linger from Boijon Media on Vimeo.

Lingering Bodies

Something unnameable, intangible–
ethereal–fills these halls.
Enter and feel the call of the void.
Lingering spirits, whose bodies misplaced,
seek peace in retribution–vengeance.
Respect for the dead is a long held tradition–
it’s basic human rights–even on the battlefield.
But in a place
where those warriors of life, pain, and suffering
sought refuge, healing, care
were confronted with the deepest disrespect for human life–
their bodies thrown in closets and empty spaces;
disregard for humanity in its most fundamental sense:
the treatment of the dead,
the disrespect for the bodies they inhabited, lived in, called their own–
worked with, made and raised children with,
fought the everyday battle–
something lingers, not just in the air.
something pervades, invades the souls of all who enter,
reminding them:
“Each person fought a battle,
and when that battle’s over
they need to be treated with the warrior’s code–
or the common traditional burial rites–
in which respect is paid to those who fought,
for until they receive this recognition,
they’ll stick around,
reminding those who enter
of the battles they fought,
and the hardships they endured.”
Until they get this recognition–
compensation for their struggles,
even just remembrance–
they’ll share their experiences
with all they can
until one day,
someone understands,
and sets them free.
Respect must be paid to the soldiers of life,
for soldiers all are we
in the everyday struggle,
fighting the forces of the mean–
the average,
your neighbor,
and your best friend down the street.

Lingering Bodies from Boijon Media on Vimeo.

Sebastian Wesman
“Visual Poems” by Sebastian Wesman

“Visual Poems” is an ensemble of short cinematographic pieces which their author defines as haikus in image.

In these, Wesman reflects the beauty and mystery in the everyday life of a city, with an emphasis on the image that is almost pictorial. There is a hint of influence by the paintings of Edward Hopper, like in the case of “The Electric Garden of Marilyn”, and the films of Andrei Tarkovsky, reflections of which can be sensed in the visual poem “My Friend”.

The pieces were filmed in Tallinn, Estonia, but because of the universal character of the work, it could have been filmed in any other city in the world.

For the music of “Visual Poems”, the director and composer Sebastian Wesman created a choir and a string quartet to accompany and to give evident depth to each poem. Some of the poems are accompanied by solo piano, performed by the director.

Each poem offers us a subtle state of observation, where sensation of time is lost.


Dear Mr. Ligongo, I’m sorry.
I don’t know how to tell you this, but here it goes: I’m a tranny.
Post-op, performed by Satan,
Disguised as vitamin D, vehicular sun rays,
Into my star-belly he slipped, opioid rodent into hormonal tansu.
Me was absent, absorbed in your gift, (the feline yantra).
Now my sex = Manhood’s dregs, natron.
Once again, I’m sorry I hid the truth from you and the rest of the Yao
So I could try out my new vagina…I know, that’s fucking nasty!
If your love is unconditional, find me at Hollywood United Methodist Church—I’ve joined the nuns.
Your ex-lover, Santa

The Pocketed Napkin of An Exploding Star

The Pocketed Napkin of an Exploding Star


I’m not reckless

I’ve wrecked four cars

driving home from

the floors of closed bars.

I’m unafraid, I’m afraid,

as long as I live to see

another day of getting paid.

but every mistake I make

gets put up on the fuckin’ TV

every intimate detail

under microscope scrutiny

and people wonder why I say


Untitled No. 18

this ain’t no contract for all the autodidacts

this ain’t no country club

it’s the last dance

only chance to make time

fade the fuck away

into the ashtrays,

buy a coke, a six-pack and nicotine of some kind,

and wash yourself knowing

just as you pay

it’s just a liars last dream with truth in mind

holding ice in my hand

waiting for the whiskey,


hand me my medicines, man.

I can’t stay waiting for the policeman,

all the things that he can


and stay true

to his badge,

and his zoo.


so they say my breath smells like whiskey

but my breath doesn’t drink, I do.

I’m just rhyming consistently,

doesn’t mean anything

alright, maybe it does occasionally.