Untergang des Disneylandes
Evening falls it’s hard not to love art
the tickle of small fetishes, the material obscenities
The beauty pageant whose winner is already crowned
In the light of mental whips the belle is plucked swan
The lascivious one assumes the pose in glitter rain
Lie down by the grave (The dead one was a major poet)
Sift sand and gold, out of the pumps, between their fingers
Can any critic see the difference? Grains and grains
Can you see through your fingers twilight dims shimmers it is hard
Evening falls it is hard not to love the myth
the alabaster nude in the coffin of glass
The green glade where the cretins sublimate
write with a clinical light turn white to black
Back in the castle the queen injects apples with poison
Sees her udders in the mirror– the nipples stiffen
and the scopophiliac’s cock – one can see them shining red
in intricate objectives: Fake rubies, air curtains
make empty promises, darkness falls shimmers it is finished
CHINESE DEMOCRACY: Thanks, but, no thanks.
No, it doesn’t work out.
I was there yesterday. That stage:
We were One. You were another.
Theirs. A clear vision – in realtime.
The stew in China. The Chinese wall.
The Chinese stew.
I feel as torn as Axl Rose.
I was a great classic. Isn’t that the truth?
What do I owe?
Will I be able to live in the future with my debt?
All time that passed was a struggle, an abomination.
It was strangle, an abomination.
An iron scepter. A National Toilet. In which to vomit.
I am quality. Form. A perfectionist.
Yes, isn’t that true?
All while time passed the opportunity would come.
And land and mountain would be moved, right?
Yes, isn’t that true? It was an expensive time.
And land to move, but the time flew.
Expensive time, and I was busy.
I hope that you are in favor. I hope that you are on.
No, not so good, completely off.
And listen when you want to.
I am the other.
I thought you had to be, and you are.
If you can see it, I am too.
Is it true that we will die?
Are we in the way?
Is this the way to hell?
If you don’t want, and nothing or more,
then eat it with your eyes. Eat until you puke!
I’ll show you how: how everyone affects everyone.
Show a complex that eyes can measure.
Debt, quality, an eye-complex.
Form, completion, to clearly demand order.
At one with time eat a Chinese stew.
See quality, seen/heard/ speak silently about all that remains.
THE ARCHIVE: You go on your shift: nine to five.
“Oh God!” she exclaims
her body perfectly
in a coffin of petrified light.
At five o’clock it’s time to go home:
Now she sees only a gaping crater.
Clemens Altgård (born 1959). Lives in Malmö, Sweden. Poet, writer, dramatist and translator. Art and literature critic. He has published five collections of poetry since 1986. One of the original members of the now-dissolved literary group Malmöligan (The Malmo Gang) consisting of, besides Altgård, Håkan Sandell, Per Linde, Kristian Lundberg, Lukas Moodysson and Martti Soutkari. Togehether with Sandell Altgård also has written an essay book Om retrogadism (On retrogardism) 1995.