Eiríkur Örn Norðdahl - poetry translations and english originals

Thou shalt not Morgan - for Monica Yabal

2007-11-08T05:00:00.000-08:00

Thou shalt not Morgan
- a word of advice about the world abroad

Sifting through surfers with syphilis sipping insipid substances
on Sidney’s supersandy surfaces – „shoosh“ says the sea
seeing monosyllabic surfers with syphilis sexing
sesquipedalian superstars of cellular searchery.

Sabre-toothed surfers with syphilis in their sartorially taylored sailor suits
seeking saints for some seditionary missionary –
seismically salivating their saline sewage, sickly son-of-a-guns
slobbering on soft-hearted sassy sanguine seductresses

Savage sausages with syphilis are like sawn-off shotguns says the say-so,
saboteurs of sensual salubriousness, symbolizing the submissive she-dom serfhood
to surfhood in systematic semisapient soap-operas – sucks for
soberminded and sanative sylphs simply seeking sun in the sand!

No, Mo!
No mo’!
Go, Mo!
No mo’!

Syncreting with syphilis is synonimous with soliciting saddle-sores,
solidified souvenirs of sultry sub rosian suffixal suitors,
soundtracks of surely sour grapes in the sordid southern hemisphere
submersed in the see-through seepage of stark-nakedness.

Sundials striking in stagnant staccato, stopping sterilized stigmas
when suppositories with syphilis suggest seven sestertiums
for superpositioning on said sylphs supinity,
severing their suspenders in sensual shaggification.

Shallow are the seas for synchronized swimming of
syncopated syphilitic semen from shapeless
shopsoiled sharpshooters surfing on their soundbytes
of soft soap, unsheathing their subhuman soul mates.

No, Mo!
No mo’!
Go, Mo!
No mo’!

Sophisticated sweeties in sweat-pants stunning sunning in
solar flares should snicker at snake charmers, snarling snide
and snearingly snap back, snub snow-ballingly: Snuggling with
snorkelers scantily clad is like scavenging for scabies.

Seismic sensationalist sceptres stiff and soaring;
succoured to scented succulence, swatting the sacrosanct
and surfing the seven seas on skinflicky skiffs,
these skulduggerous scruffy skitters of sick scrotums.

See, this smarmy smooth-spoken smorgasbord of orgasmic
surfer-smurfs with serums of seashore sensualisms,
seahorses of sacrilegious sickening salami-shafts
will salaam at the shreaking sound of syphilitic sextuplets.

Höpöhöpö Böks/ Bök's Höpöhöpö (literal translation)

2007-06-16T02:29:00.001-07:00

Köld öld Böks mjög örg.
Ölböl örlög Böks!
Sök Böks kvöl öll kvöld.
Öll göt Gvöðs köld.

(Bök’s cold century is very angry.
Ale curse is Bök’s destiny.
bök’s guilt is his pain every night.
all of God’s holes are cold.)

Ör hönd Böks sökk,
gjör mörg lönd rök
hönd Böks sökk gröð,
Örg: "Ööööh... Bök!"

(Bök’s quick hand sank,
makes many lands moist,
Bök’s hand sank horny,
angry: “Uuuuuh… Bök!“)

Frönsk mön öll hözl Böks.
Rök mök gjör Bök börn.
Börn Böks ör, frökk:
Örn, Ösp, Björn, Björg.

(All of Bök’s lays are French women,
moist sex makes babies for Bök.
bök’s babies are quick, bold:
Örn, Ösp, Björn, Björg.)

Fökk Bök! Böks sök!
Sölt höf Böks röff
Brött fjöll kjörlönd Böks
Kjörfög Böks frökk stönt.

(Fuck Bök! It’s Bök’s fault!
Bök’s salty baths are rough.
Steep mountains are Bök’s preferred venue.
Bök’s chosen field is daring stunts.)

Mörbörn fjörstöð Böks:
Ösp gjör fönn; Björg gjör stönt;
Sönglög Björns öll böst;
Örn gjör öll lök rök.

(Grease-children are Bök’s fun-station:
Ösp makes snow; Björg does stunts;
Björn’s singing tunes are a bust;
Örn Makes all sheets moist.)

För Böks sönn, löng.
Böks höfn löt vör.
Þökk, Gvöð! Römm gjöf:
Gjör Böks tölt ört.

(Bök’s journey is true, long,
Bök’s harbour is lazy.
Thanks, God! A powerful gift:
Make Bök’s ride fast.)

Tölt Bök, tölt, för hröð.
Stökk Bök, stökk, gjör för
Böks fjörför, gjör tök Böks hörð;
flöt Böks jörð gjör stökkför töff.

(Ride Bök, ride, the journey is fast.
Jump Bök, jump, make the journey
of Bök a fun journey, make Bök’s grip hard;
Bök’s flat earth makes the jumping journey cool.)

Böks stöff: Rör, hörslör, gjörð;
Böks rör mjög, mjög löng;
Hörslör Böks gjör hörför;
Gjörð Böks, örlög Böks.

(Bök’s stuff: Pipes, a veil, a hoop;
Bök’s pipes are very, very long;
Bök’s veil makes veil-marks;
Bök’s hoop, the fate of Bök.)

Stök mjöðm Böks hölt,
öxl Böks hörð, tönn Böks skökk,
Böks sköp rök, gröð mök Böks
gjör Bök röff örlög; fökk röff örlög!

(Bök’s single hip is limp,
Bök’s shoulder hard, Bök’s tooth crooked,
Bök’s cunt is moist, the horny sex of Bök
makes destiny rough for Bök; fuck rough destiny!)

Kjöt Böks stökk!; löng stökk kjöts!,
Böks kjöt gjör Böks tögg mjög töff,
öl Böks gjör mön ör, stöff Böks gjör fjör.
Töff, töff, töff! Töff, töff, töff!

(Bök’s meat jump!; long jumps of meat,
Bök’s meat makes Bök’s toughness very cool,
Bök’s ale makes women quick, Bök’s stuff makes fun.
Cool, cool, cool! Cool, cool, cool!)

(In the summer of 2005 Christian Bök, the author of univocal lipogram Eunoia, was a guest at the Nýhil international poetry festival in Iceland, an event I organized. After some drinks one evening I leant over and said I thought it was really strange that he'd skipped his own Ö (incidentally CB was born "Christian Book" - but found the cross to heavy to bear, and changed his name) - and as the drinking got heavier my bravado grew, and eventually I promised that I would produce an Ö chapter for him. Eventually I did in Icelandic, did a rough translation, and they were printed together in a chapbook by Derek Beaulieu's No Press for Christians 40th birthday last year.

My reading of the poem can be found on my UBU-web page.

Christian's own reading of it (in Icelandic) can be found on Youtube.

The word Höpöhöpö (more commonly written höpö höpö) is finnish and means something between "bla bla bla" and "bullshit". Written in one word it's the longest word I know that only has ö's (although I have heard unsubstantiated rumours about it's synonym: höpölöpö)).

Leevi is a wild dolphin

2007-06-11T07:59:00.000-07:00

Leevi is a wild young dolphin who began imitating his mother in many tasks at a very young age
Leevi is already searching people who are hiding in odd places and learning how to reveal the found person by barking
Leevi is a soccer player and he thoroughly enjoys the game
Leevi is almost 4 years old mellow boy but a little bit slow at his thoughts
Leevi is now ready for breeding
Leevi is situated at the 20th kilometre on võru – räpina road
Leevi is a lovely dog
Leevi is very playful
Leevi is 9 years old and he goes to oravasaari school
Leevi is proudly owned by kalervo lonkila from muuruvesi
Leevi is pictured above at 9 months
Leevi is studying to be a welder
Leevi is now qualified in the field
Leevi is beautiful
Leevi is the best
Leevi is active obedience dog

The poems protagonist is of course the finnish poet Leevi Lehto. The poem was generated with googlism. The picture was found by using this "revealing image" on Leevi's blog.

Writing poetry after Christian Bök is barbaric

2007-06-06T03:07:00.000-07:00

so moch doponds
opon

o rod whool
borrow

glozod woth roon
wotor

bosodo tho whoto
chockons.

The poem is a reworking of William Carlos Williams' Red Wheelbarrow, written in a similar way as Lars Mikael Raattamaa's Pajkerno, though without knowledge of it and before it was published. Red Wheelbarrow can be read by clicking here - Pajkerno, and Leevi Lehto's translation of it can be read by clicking here - and finally Christian Bök's Eunoia, to whom the title refers to can be read here. The title replaces Auschwitz for Christian Bök, in Theodor Adorno's famous quote: "Writing poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric".

Teaming of what, Ned?

2007-06-02T03:21:00.000-07:00

Teaming Erin, so what, Ned?
A vat, Ned, heir called a duped
insect, wit and means howls.

Oct-teaming her insect mend,
simmer meow love of what knee noon
hummer ‘til howls.

Oct-teaming of what, Ned?
Renal weightlessed tell third door
in eve whit and means howls.

Homophonic translation of the first verse of Time and the Water (Tíminn og vatnið), an Icelandic modernist classic by Steinn Steinarr. The original first verse can be read in the english wikipedia article about Steinn Steinarr, along with a traditional translation by Marshall Brement.

Moment

2006-12-14T03:33:00.000-08:00

Tigers are cool
everybody says so
moral understanding
is not beer.
Beer is cool,
everybody says so.

Translated from Icelandic.
Originally appeared in Nihil Obstat.

MY BEST WORD

2006-11-30T03:55:00.000-08:00

I woke up!

I am alone, I am sad ...
I explode.
I thought so.
I am evil.

I don’t understand.
I fall.
I fly.
I fly.
I fly higher.

I fly.
I don’t understand.

What am I?
That’s what I heard!!
Why me?

Am I anyone?

I am stuck.
Who am I?

I am afraid,
I cry.

Translated from Icelandic.
Original title: Besta orðið mitt
Published in Blandarabrandarar (Mixer jokes), Nýhil, 2005.

The poem is written by copy-pasting 1.000 pages worth of poetry from the Icelandic poetry-site ljod.is, and using Windows Word Auto-Summarize to make a 0,1% summary of the aforementioned 1.000 pages – that is to say, one page. The results were not tampered with. The title of the poem comes from a poem by Dagur Sigurðarson, an Icelandic poet.

Iceland: Report on the Observance of Standards and Codes

2006-11-29T06:35:00.000-08:00

We interrupt this Iceland Report serial to offer up the following vocabulary
trivia quiz.

Within an hour of Bork Bork I am not yet defending those
who are making stupid comments and unfunny jokes

Bork is happy and energetic - with borderline manic tendencies

and if you expect any fucking
YOU DON'T KNOW ME!!@!@!@!"

My-fellow-patriots-and-citizens, what exactly is a petifile?

I practice yoga every night, I shit you not...With my body, you'd NEVER know
I birthed 2 babies..

I am hot, people. HOT.

My secret? A diet of Juarez tequila and ho-hos, and a steady regimen of
cock-sucking. Or is cock-sucking more like part of my diet? Either way, I
have an ass like a 24 yr old. And now you know.

I am so admired on this site, that everyone talks about me. I think I should
start my own blog.

I’m telling you, three more innocent people died after watching Paula Zahn's
late-night show on CNN. She can use a gun to shoot herself in the face
with, I don't care, I'd still tongue-bork her.

Do you know who Björk is?
She's in desperate need of some attention

I recommend looking in old nazi books for bork ideas. Just a floor and love
for the fatherland, in a cuntalicious kind of way

I'm a student, I'm broke and I'm not an attention whore.

You don't like other people's sweaty ball cheese odor in your delicate
little throat?

I got some ball cheese for ya, right here. Serve, to the surprised delight
of your girlfriend, who will say "Wow, I kinda had my doubts about this
meal. But this is good! You done good, babe." Awake the next morning to the
strong smell of smoked food pervading every nook and cranny of the house. If
you have regrets, just remember that this is the smell of Christmas in
Ísafjörður, Iceland.

"Ísafjörður?" (puzzled face)

"Last time I was there, in the 80s, I was stuck for five days because of
snow. They couldn't get an airplane out of there."

The main industry in Ísafjörður is cleaning the fucking kitchen.

We are the world, so fuck off

Written in english with the assistance of Google.
Previously unpublished.

DO AS I DO

2006-11-29T06:30:00.000-08:00

Do as I do.
No, don't do as I do, do as I say.
No, don't do as I don't do or say
No, do as I do or do as I do say
No, don't do as the Romans do
No, do as I don't say, not as I might not do
No, do as infinity
No, do as Army strives to plug gaps
No, do as a geographer
No, don't do as you're told by the big boys
No, do as she commands
No, don't do as good a job as they do
No, do as the beverage
No, don't do as great
No, do as you like
No, don't do as much
No, don't do movie plots
No, do when bored
No, don't do scoops
No, all you got to do is lie there all comfortable
No, do like Iceland
No, don't do body counts
No, do butterflies and Batman
No, don't do drugs
No, do a backflip play the cello know how to solve a rubik's cube
No, don't do unto others
No, what do I know?
No, don't do this at home
No, I do solemnly swear
No, don't do diapers
No, what would Tyler Durden do?
No, don't do. Be
No, don't do things half way
No, don't do social networks
No, Tae Kwon Do
No, don't do dishes
No, you do something to me
No, don't do sloppy seconds
No, do you think the word "on" rhymes with "dawn" or with "don"?
No, don't do nuance
No, do something amazing for the US Air Force
No, don't do book reviews
No, you should be allowed to do anything with functions
No, don't do hypotheticals
No, tend to do dumb things
No, don't do foreign policy
No, how do things look to colorblind people?
No, don't do quagmires
No, do these modern world experiences
No, don't do bumper stickers
No, do languages
No, don't do the Macarena
No, the computer will do the rest.
No, don't do this to yourself
No, do you believe
No, don't get involved in any criminal activities
No, what do we do with the horses
No, don't do a deal where each side gets a fixed percentage
No, do Jo
No, don't do spamming
No, websites do turn on teens
No, don't do it yourself
No, if you can read, you can do anything home
No, don't do me like that

Written in english
Previously unpublished.

URGES (NO CONTROL)

2006-11-29T05:37:00.000-08:00

I

He threw back one hamburger after another
and stuffed the fries down his gullet,
proclaimed through his chock-full mouth:

“I have little to no control of my urges!”

He then snatched the landlords youngest daughter
tweaked her nipples,
“beep! beep!” he spluttered
and smeared his ketchupy lips
all over her face, wheezing.

II

Yet again he snatched the landlords youngest daughter, unseamed her clothes
with his thick non-filtered fingers and through the zipper
of snow-washed jeans the hairy privates of a woman farted like
Sylvester the cat belches.

From within two three feathers fluttered
and the privates blushed with shame.

III

Hand me the woman
he hollered over the dinner table,
spitting out the remains of a cuntbone.

Hand it yourself,
the woman said and scratched her firy groin,
you good-for-nothing bum.

Translated from Icelandic.
Previously unpublished.

WE ARE NOT ABOUT TO HAVE A WAR

2006-11-29T02:35:00.000-08:00

This here is a job for a man of greater intelligence.

Oh boy! All these politic matters!

I have finally decided to say something relevant.

But first I must stop gawking at waitresses.

There will be nothing bad in this poem.

There will be nothing bad in this poem.

(one should never repeat oneself
unless one has something to add)

There bad nothing in poem this will be.

He, who has the last word, is always right.

George W. Bush is a frankenbum (and the political matters drift along)

I ain't no goddamned cellular hybrid.

I am no lamb!

I have a soul!

The real American taste...

Oder

Ísland ögrum skorið

Es ist mir ein Wurst!

I hold to my bosom the fish guts

from a thousand fisheries and every single exported ton of Icelandic cod

but who cares about food?

When one has Culture! (he he he)

When you have a star-spangled woolen cap and a grand old codfish!

The best blend that can be made...

Halt!

I do no longer gawk at waitresses.

I have stopped gawking at waitresses.

I better get around to saying what matters, in the cosmic context of all things. I shall only touch on perfect generalizations.

In a standard chord the same notes are traditionally repeated, in different octaves.

We are not about to have a war.

When there are no longer new chords left unplayed, men like myself wish to ignore all chords, and in their place we wish to perform linear note combinations. In this matter we are absolutely mistaken. The most frequent chords are frequent because it is a part of music's nature to optimize its maneuvers.

I saw the best minds of my...

I am a cover-poet. I write other people's poetry. It isn't because I am a bad poet myself, not by a long shot. It is because I am not the best poet, and the best poetry has already been written (it is quite possible that better poetry will one day be written, but in that case I shall have to write that as well).

We are not about to have a war.

I ain't no goddamned cellular hybrid.

The real American taste?

I have a dick thank you very much you fucking whore!

Oh who will listen to the lonely mutterings of a soul? How loud can the echo of a man's navel get? How long will it be until my navel retaliates, answers all this gibberish that I feed it? Will say: "this is the end of the line for you buddy, I am not here to give you relief! My role is to gather lint, and nothing else. Stop your nonsense and leave me alone."

Wait, I got to gawking at waitresses again. It was seriously not on purpose.

A man's navel has spoken.

Well then. You are now situated on my prerequisites. We don't really have rules around here, but you better do as I say.

Tomorrow I might get tipsy and shoot myself in the foot.

A tad bit about other things that matter:

I do not believe that sincerity can ever conquer cynicism. I do, on the other hand, believe that cynicism can conquer cynicism, and destroy both of itselves. For instance if I were to say: "Oh? Aren't we cynical this evening!"

Precisely! Wasn't somebody saying something about possessing a soul? That somebody might want to watch out not to assert about things he just might not know all that much about, huh? Precisely!

Damn this cynical fool!

Modern bebop contains only predetermined licks. And for that reason, it is no more creative than, say, poetry. Mere reiterations. The nightingales might shut up once in a while, but you can be certain that they will begin again later. Nothing disappears. I know I am not alone in being amazed that Christianity and Dresden still exist, despite the obliteration of the city, and despite the fact that both the father and the son have been stoned and ridiculed. There are still people willing to write sonnets.

Well then. Let's take a break for thought. See if any of this works out. I contain multitudes... I can never contradict myself, not really. I am only capable of saying one thing at a time.

I am willing to admit that she might be a slut, but at least she's cute and willing to converse with me. Besides, she admitted that she's a slut. And then, you are a slut as well, so maybe you'd like to watch out a little and look around to see if glass-walls are caving in on you when you talk. I don't mean this in a bad way, I mean it in a really good way, but just watch out a little, eh? Or I'll go fucking apeshit. You get my drift?

We are not about to have a war.

The following periods are almost without meaning...

How does one go about suggesting to ones friends, if he (I) (they) should gang-rape someone? How does one hint at something like that? Saying this I do not mean to imply that I want to gang-rape anyone, but I am not saying the idea doesn't pop up once in a while.

At some point I promised I would only write about politics.

A tad bit about politics:

It has quite recently been brought to my attention that US authorities perform experiments with chemical weapons on living human beings.

I will let you determine for yourselves whether these mentioned human beings are Arabic terrorists in Guantanamo, or illegal immigrants in destitution, or Americans so damn blinded with nationalism that they just don't care. That is not in itself a matter of any importance.

A tad bit.

Clear blue skies (we are not about to have a war)

An intoxicating nocturnal silence (we are not about to have a war)

The lowering of taxes (we are not about to have a war)

National holidays of various countries (we are not about to have a war)

A sandbox-sieve (we are not about to have a war)

Clear blue skies (we are not about to have a war)

A calm, and the glassy pavement in a snowless winter still (we are not about to have a war)

An election dinner and cake-devouring and intelligent conversations about everything that matters (we are not about to have a war)

Wealthy Russians fondling breasts and learning how to behave (we are not about to have a war)

Smile at the Prime Minister, he is inflicted with a rather large boo-boo (we are not about to have a war)

Women burn their bras and therefore a few years later need to get implants to support their nipples (we are not about to have a war)

Then there's always the spring (we are not about to have a war)

You can survive the weirdest of circumstances, and if you manage to do it right you might even make money doing so (we are not about to have a war)

In a perfect world noone is forced to consider politics, in the future our congressional representatives will serve single terms of several hundreds of years (we are not about to have a war)

To beat a man in the head with all your might is not only silly, it is also a sport (we are not about to have a war)

A man walks into a bar...

[cough!]

Yes, precisely!

BLOODPUDDLE WARFLOWER BEATING OF BOMBTHROBS TRAPIZES AND BAYONETS AND LOOK AT ME WHEN I'M DYING TO YOU - DO NOT ACT AS IF I WERE YOUR MOTHER YOUR MOTHERS MOTHER - YOU WILL DO AS I TELL YOU AND WIPE YOUR NOSE ON EMPTY SLEEVES FOR YOUR FATHERLAND YOUR MOTHERLAND YOUR MOTHERS MOTHERLAND WE ARE PREPARED TO DO WHAT'S RIGHT/DO OUR SHARE BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY! SOON! MY HEART MEANS TO LEAVE AND I DON'T MEAN THE BODY BUT PLAY WITH MY BREATH AND HOPE THAT THERE WILL NOT COME ANOTHER SUNRISE WHERE IT WOULD INVEVITABLY BE DISCOVERED WERE IN THE NIGHT YOU THRUST YOUR PENIS - DON'T BE LIKE THAT WE ARE NOT ABOUT TO HAVE A WAR JUST LOOK HOW EVERYTHING DIES GO FETCH YOUR WEAPONS DO NOT BE CHILDISH THIS WAR IS NOT ABOUT TO HAPPEN GO FETCH YOUR WEAPONS THIS WAR IS FOR THOSE WHO GO FETCH THEIR WEAPONS THIS WAR IS FOR GERMANS WHO GO FETCH THEIR WEAPONS FRENCHMEN THIS WAR IS FOR SPANIARDS THAT GO FETCH THEIR WEAPONS THIS WAR IS FOR JEWS THAT GO FETCH THEIR WEAPONS GYPSIES GO FETCH YOUR WEAPONS DO NOT BE CHILDISH ARABS THIS WAR IS NOT HAPPENING GO FETCH YOUR WEAPONS FAROESE AND ICELANDERS AND LICHTENSTEINERS AND ESTONIANS AND LATVIANS AND LITHUANIANS AND FINNS AND DANES AND NORWEGIANS AND SVALBARDERS AND LET US NOT FORGET THE LATIN-AMERICANS AND FIDEL CAN PLAY AS WELL (finally we agree on something) THERE WILL BE NO BLOOD BUT THE MOST POISONOUS GATHERING OF ALL MILLENIUMS IN THE NATIONS MOST PSYCHOTIC GORGES THE RADIO WILL BE THERE TEN DANCEFLOORS BECAUSE THIS WAR IS NOT AT ALL HAPPENING AND TWENTY D.J.'S BECAUSE THIS WAR IS NOT AT ALL AND WE SHALL HAVE A TAD BIT OF NEUROTIC NATIONALIST COMEDIANS AND A TAD BIT OF FREE REFRESHMENTS PRODUCED BY NOONE BUT THE GOVERNMENT IS STILL BUYING TO CELEBRATE THE OCCASION AND WHAT CAN I SAY BUT LET'S JOIN HANDS BECAUSE UNITED WE STAND AND DIVIDED YOU KNOW WHAT ...

(it has recently been brought to my attention that with the right mixture of light and shadow things can be made disappear, just like that, as if someone clicked their fingers. I do not know how true this is, but sure enough I can corroborate that at times it definitely feels like something is missing).

Translated from Icelandic.
Original title: Það er ekki að fara að hefjast neitt stríð.
From the book Nihil Obstat. Published by Nýhil in 2003.

... AND THE WORD WAS CLINT

2006-11-28T06:13:00.000-08:00

Much to everyone’s surprise
the haiku stormed the fields
as mad as a hatter,
wielding a sharp blade
and started slashing metre
left and right.

A myriad of free-verse poetry
suffered defeat
epistles slain against the walls
bled caesurae out of their gullets.

A couplet for love
sopped its cheeks with tears
lonesome on a dirty cot,
soiled with last nights stint,
it reeked of lies and
yet it died with ease.

The most potent of lyrical epics
– even fads of unnerving muscle –
lay supine with their guts seeping out,
redundant, slain again and ever again,
even they were not granted life.

Parallels, opposites,
recurrences,
palaver and foot,
overstatements
and understatements
groaned in beat
to the roar of demise
when a maddening
japanese metre
rode through the fields
cross-legged
with one word over the other
in a mood of nearly insolent
Calm.

Finally, the haiku itself dropped to its knees
roared out a cry of war,
raised the sword high above it’s head
and drove the blade through it’s own abdomen.

Translated from Icelandic.
Original title: ... og orðið var Clint
From the book Heimsendapestir (Apocalyptical Epidemics) published by Nýhil in 2002.

NOT THESE WORDS

2006-11-28T05:46:00.000-08:00

Prologus

And he stepped in...

and he looked left and right

a heap of old newspapers on one side and an open can of old cottage-cheese on the table he put one hand in his pantspocket and pulled out – clenched between his fingers – a spruced up doomsday poem suit-and-tie-verses for burning churches an ode to a bleeding 1st class prostitute (those were her last days and she deserved a couple of beautiful words dying from the toil for bread and bacon – deserved pretty words like all those who never ever gave up) opens his clenched palm so that the last days come flying up a monkey wrench and love and kebab and the bus-that-always-gets-there fluttering dancing from one corner to the other over cottage-cheese and heaps of newspapers stepping on eachothers toes levitate and fall so that one day they can get back up having become a spanner and mutual responsibility bread and the hatchback-to-get-the-kids-to-school the poem only the coupling of what it once was closed in the palm of a hand in a pocket that strokes it gently tucks it into a piece of paper and sings it the national anthem before bedtime.

I

The world is all in other words. I won’t claim that it’s more beautiful – that the sun sets more leisurely or that people kill eachother less for no apparent reason but I am much happier in other words dancing in other words conflicting in conflicts and love to feel under my fingers fresh flesh and when this one flabs itself out of my reach the sun comes and sets in other words in other worlds and we finally manage to squeeze between us this lovely cynicism – a world in other words is never completely stable and therefore I sometimes lose my balance and bowl along on my ass somewhere to the never-never and barely manage to stop myself with my head buried between unknown breasts I almost suffocate when I bend back my head intoning in prurience „My darling my whore smile or I’ll cease my commotions and leave.”

II

Oh all this huh?-happiness doesn’t come naturally.
This is just a world.
It’s even bad and ugly and filled with misunderstandings and regulations.

Freiheit and libertad are mine but my most economical advisers agree that freedom should be run by private contractors – I want a freundin ‘cause girlfriends don’t do it for me anymore.

III

Phooey! it’s still just a world when they pronounce it in another way. Phooey schmooey.

A tale of growth?

There’s nothing to talk about that isn’t growth.

Except for vanity
except for the tranquilities and me
conversing with my elevated self
I wish for flesh and just as swiftly I wish it away.

A love story?

Well ... no. A tale of growth.

Through the three kings, slender corpulent and colourful Buddha.
together through our flesh oversatiated dancing the apocalypso pulsating with a doomsdaybeat in the dark and the silence of clubs when I can’t talk to people.

Do we praise the animal? Isn’t that ok then,? Seeing as it’s human, and all?

IV

Down on the ground
a depression where the snow will melt away
in our coming May
the sun talks to me without padding it
purrs and whispers:

„If you don’t smile I will stop and leave. Smile my whore.”

Came uninvited suddenly on nobody’s call putting forth demands of all possible kinds but refusing to manageable herself: „You can’t own me!” like some stupid high-school girl in an existential crisis. Of course I can own you! But I answer: „Uhh ... you ... uhh ... are my sunshine ... my ... uhh... only sunshine?” hoping that she’ll appreciate the power of poetry and forgive me in the end and finally.

V

A rapacious child ripping the world from your arms?
-Crash!
And the world (you think) twists and deforms to other words?
-Crash! Crash!

It winds up and down whirlpools with top-agility spinning fluttering crash! The theory that the world is a spinning-top doesn’t hold spinning-tops need a substructure and equilibrium crash crash!

The child plays gurgling at her surroundings taking turns at screaming and shitting senselessly conjuring a mobile over the crib and drooling on the bedspread and finally laughs crash at the whole boatload of nonsense.

Never forget that if you want to teach the child to avoid fire you must first burn the child. If you put a shutter on the well to keep children from falling in we will all die from thirst. To make the world childproof is to destroy the world.

VI

Are these words written for eternity? No no. And phooey!

The loudest mouth says the least ...!!! and all of those.

Somebody should to stock up on deprivation bottle it lug the bottles to the market with the ass on a leash and sell it at a bargain. You really don’t want to know how this ends.

VII

And where does this need come from, this need to be for rather than against? To oppose rather than approve? Is it also conformism when we swim together upstream?

And maybe here concentration gets lost here in this river’s mouth that the fountain saw in mirages and the answers all sink into the foam before the questions even show up sinking sinking smiling my whore my darling finally smiling.

Translated from Icelandic.
Original title: Ekki þessi orð.
From the book Nihil Obstat. Published by Nýhil in 2003.