An Icelandic Xenophobe, floating in the void over black sands, between the mountains. My heart is in these mountains. An echo of my grandparents chanting the rhymes.
I can hear ghosts breathing,
My absolute.
My heart pumps lava.
My fire living in Ice.
We are the hidden people,
Eve's rejects,
Living proudly within nature.
We are Iceland, the closest thing
you have
to the ghosts of harmony.
An expressionless man, and a stern woman. Having seen the noon and eve of their lives.
Living along side their treasures,
their magic in the world.
We have lost our appreciation for silence,
for the distant wind howling between the lava beds,
we have dismissed the hidden people
the keepers of our heritage.
Mid-wives, light-mothers, to our identity
An expressionless man, and a stern woman. Having seen the noon and eve of their lives.
look at the sand, with depart in their eyes
their magic in the world.
My roots deep in the mountains
feel the pulse from the wound
where we were cut away
holding on the the ghost pain.
A child standing cold and alone
with nothing but a knife
too young to loose them.
A howling gale in the void
and within it
my grandfathers voice
and my grandmother's requiem.
Friday, September 02, 2011
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
In a green hill there is a lake, running slowly and freely. Therein are the most breath-taking prismatic schools of fish.
My favorite are the violet ones, they recurrently swim when the sun is at ten hours flight. I dip my toes in and lean back and let the sun blind me as it pokes through the leaves in the breeze.
I feel between worlds on these moments, engulfed in two worlds of colors. The chill of the green, turquoise and grey and the soft, warm brushes of orange and yellow. The red in my veins thrusts out, at these moments, to the surface. A sign of embarrassment completely misinterpreted. Misrepresented.
Here in my solitude I remain fully clothed at all times. It is not from shame that I hide my skin from nature. But rather allowing myself to anticipate it. To excite myself with the prospect of one day returning there and enjoy the utter fulfillment. But now, at this moment, there is always that little left. A road left un-taken.
My little hill, my little stream and the grass. Warming my toes as I step around the trees, droplets seeping from my feet in to the soil. A thick green tapestry, every green known by my eyes. By my skin. Bare-feet filled with my hearts blood.
I lean against the trunk, lay my hands against the thick and warm bark. The creases and cracks showing time passing. A photograph of a life lived and yet to have been lived. An old soul rising up. The top is so far above me, and there it is so frail. Down here with me, the roots are thick and the body is strong. I can feel my essence blending with the tree and I can feel my hill. In my breast. My gift from the world and from myself. Here there is no need to climb because here I am content on the ground. Here I am grateful for the sky above me and the ground below me. No shame, only, anticipation.
...
to be continued.
My favorite are the violet ones, they recurrently swim when the sun is at ten hours flight. I dip my toes in and lean back and let the sun blind me as it pokes through the leaves in the breeze.
I feel between worlds on these moments, engulfed in two worlds of colors. The chill of the green, turquoise and grey and the soft, warm brushes of orange and yellow. The red in my veins thrusts out, at these moments, to the surface. A sign of embarrassment completely misinterpreted. Misrepresented.
Here in my solitude I remain fully clothed at all times. It is not from shame that I hide my skin from nature. But rather allowing myself to anticipate it. To excite myself with the prospect of one day returning there and enjoy the utter fulfillment. But now, at this moment, there is always that little left. A road left un-taken.
My little hill, my little stream and the grass. Warming my toes as I step around the trees, droplets seeping from my feet in to the soil. A thick green tapestry, every green known by my eyes. By my skin. Bare-feet filled with my hearts blood.
I lean against the trunk, lay my hands against the thick and warm bark. The creases and cracks showing time passing. A photograph of a life lived and yet to have been lived. An old soul rising up. The top is so far above me, and there it is so frail. Down here with me, the roots are thick and the body is strong. I can feel my essence blending with the tree and I can feel my hill. In my breast. My gift from the world and from myself. Here there is no need to climb because here I am content on the ground. Here I am grateful for the sky above me and the ground below me. No shame, only, anticipation.
...
to be continued.
Monday, January 31, 2011
a lonely maggot, eating his way through the big-toe.
He chews slowly and resolutely at the firm skin...
softening with the days, getting more supple... more juicy
The worm pulsates with every step he takes, up the calf and up the leg
A red line as a slug-trail after him, following him...
his tiny teeth gnawing away at the flesh... the food
A wedding between nature and demise, a walk up the isle.
A pulse in the leg, a pulse of digestion. Pellets of excrement.
To the sex. Meaty parts. No bone. Only... juicy food
A cold platter, a slab of post-raw meat, all you can eat.
Sitting alone at the buffet, his work cut out for him... by him.
Taking the pleasure trail onwards and upwards... inwards.
For a brief moment he pauses, contemplating and fearing.
Wondering why.
And then his gut makes him aware. And he takes a bite.
His path has become soft, almost liquid. And he feels like an eel would.
Each bite bigger and fuller. Each bite easier and quicker.
He feels as if he has crossed a hill, everything is downhill from there.
Ambition rises in him. His bites become more violent. haste.
Even though the flesh is sweet and moist. He doesn't realise. He eats.
He swells with passionate ambition. And he eats.
Coming to the hardest muscle. Challenging its structure and fighting. Eating
Each bite more resigned, each effort more concise.
Until he has crossed it, triumphant.
His path is long and now narrow. Only one way to go.
feeling so close, so proud and so tired...
mouth still working and bit by bit he keeps on.
edging past the mouth, crispy flakes on liquefied lips.
sliding past the nose, across the bridge.
where he stops.
mouth exhausted.
belly full.
He sleeps.
He flies away.
He chews slowly and resolutely at the firm skin...
softening with the days, getting more supple... more juicy
The worm pulsates with every step he takes, up the calf and up the leg
A red line as a slug-trail after him, following him...
his tiny teeth gnawing away at the flesh... the food
A wedding between nature and demise, a walk up the isle.
A pulse in the leg, a pulse of digestion. Pellets of excrement.
To the sex. Meaty parts. No bone. Only... juicy food
A cold platter, a slab of post-raw meat, all you can eat.
Sitting alone at the buffet, his work cut out for him... by him.
Taking the pleasure trail onwards and upwards... inwards.
For a brief moment he pauses, contemplating and fearing.
Wondering why.
And then his gut makes him aware. And he takes a bite.
His path has become soft, almost liquid. And he feels like an eel would.
Each bite bigger and fuller. Each bite easier and quicker.
He feels as if he has crossed a hill, everything is downhill from there.
Ambition rises in him. His bites become more violent. haste.
Even though the flesh is sweet and moist. He doesn't realise. He eats.
He swells with passionate ambition. And he eats.
Coming to the hardest muscle. Challenging its structure and fighting. Eating
Each bite more resigned, each effort more concise.
Until he has crossed it, triumphant.
His path is long and now narrow. Only one way to go.
feeling so close, so proud and so tired...
mouth still working and bit by bit he keeps on.
edging past the mouth, crispy flakes on liquefied lips.
sliding past the nose, across the bridge.
where he stops.
mouth exhausted.
belly full.
He sleeps.
He flies away.
