from Fist or Words Bereft of Sense
by Eiríkur Örn Norðdahl

Printer-friendly version


            Eating pikes and stallions
                emaciated welfare harlots
                   in triumphant euphoria doddering knuckleheads
                        wrapping themselves upp in bonds gilded and
                           sweetened, embroidered, laminated,
                          covered in the most expensive silk crowns
                       can buy while the son of a bitch is burning
                   and the hospital food is keeling over
                     Everyone knows that it can’t go on
                          like this anymore we must
                                eventually have to face
                                  these our longings of sociopathic
                                    tailors while the blessed ocean gives
                                      in and the floor is leaking This will not
                                    be mended with words or deeds You
                                  must see the worthless sauntering about
                                 in the slush and the sludge whining they
                            the angels of all of our yesterday’s to-

                                                And somewhere close by
                                                the creaking of democracy


                           E n d u r e n d u r e n d u r e
                             e n d u r e n d u r e the wonder
                              and marvel and thunder
                                sand built on land
                                    sinking in the sand
                                      winds row and grounds heal
                                     distended diaphragms of the breathless
                                   singing capitals of letters
                                 There will be no conditions
                               made or provisos of words
                             the world is costless
                           for those who make bold and

                                    In the distance the sound
                                    of ancient loans overdue


            Stocks gaping over
              the grooves of the perplexed
                bleeding with ease from pockets
                 lined with photographs of
                   vikings in all sorts of swashbuckling
                     tight spots of unsavage images
                        crying darlings at our likenesses
                       in nonstop scuffles with
                      walls of garages
                    so that the members
                 of the farmer party
               most honourable
             will stand frightened


                                                                        On blogs the cussing of Pound
                                                                        meets the shrieking of Lorca