T H E POEMS _;__
 
 

Self-portrait
 

Seven fingers on a coffin lid
teeth buried in a desolate place
bird's wings nailed to joints

I count my eyelashes
in the room where you were born

don't take a revenge on me
 

                  (from the Blind Man's Bicycle, 1982)
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I published my first collection of poetry at the age of 15. I didn't know better and I still don't know any better than to publish what I write. But you're not going to see any of those early poems here. Instead I treat you to three poems from my last book "myrkar fígúrur" or "dark figures" or "figures obscures" as the French say ...
+
(These poems also functioned as lyrics on "cinnamon doves", a CD I made with Baldur J. Baldursson.)
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at  the  grave  of  the  invisible  man
 

the cigarillos I light
and place on your tombstone

smoke themselves

the struggle is far from over

if not us - then them!

~

twelfth  night  procession
 

they hold hands down the street
lady of our departure and lord of our will
knocking on doors here and there
calling out volunteers
for the church of gnawed knuckles
 

ii
 
the crowd swells

st. john the patron saint of the razorblade
st. anne of the hanging
st. stephen of the shotgun
st. margaret of the overdose
st. olaf of the plastic bag
st. catherine of the gas ovens
st. williams of the windowsill
st. theresa of the exhaustion pipes

to name but few
of those who have aldready been called
hence
 

iii
 
twentythree seconds
before midnight
the walk in crocodile
down my street

~

paris  (1895 / 1985)
 

alone in the night
together with a hash merchant
who whispers
"chocolat, monsieur?"

(back home someone is dying)

and at the bottom of the street
on the corner
I reach a shop
with mechanical dolls

(back home someone is dying)

they're life-size
antiquated
and wait to be
wound up

(back home someone is dying)
 
 
 
 

-_____prose_,_m u s i c .....
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