Reykjavík Grapevine - 09.01.2015, Side 36

ZEN
Ring the bells! Ring the repetitive alarms—
the irresistibly itching reminders of cir-
cular memories! Pull the triggers! Ignite
the fuzes of colourful calorie bombs—the
highly explosive redeemers of repressive
histories! Entrepreneurs of all progres-
sive Lebensraums, reunite! Artfully insert
your edgy index fingers into the generous
soil! May infinite amounts of holy bread
and healing circuses pompously flood the
farmsteads of your enemies' sacrilegious
lands! Pray for a final solution—for a fulfill-
ing end to their growths, to their gains, to
their plagues, to their poisonous breaths!
SHRINE
An over-voiced clergyman pauses, sneak-
ingly blowing his allergic nose. Below
him, the fireworked cult remains cata-
strophically silent as a Goliath worth of a
ping pong ball—electrified by heretofore
unheard-of mass of convictions—me-
thodically jumps between glittery heads
breeding undisputed earth connections
par excellence. Eyes get shut, mouths
mopped, tongues cut, ears chopped, chins
knocked, lips clinically sewed up. All the
other cheeks are turned—deadly strokes
returned.
WEIGHT
A cross fucks the crescent. A crescent
sucks the cross. In the basement of an
abandoned monastery, at the top of a
steep mental hill crowned with thorns of
woven thunders, a foamy muzzled vet-
eran monk spanks a praying crowd of
freshly captured mujahideen. Tied up and
chained to the wall, a livestock of Dalai
Lama copycats and Rastafarian fridge
magnet designers steadfastly operate the
spiritual cogwheel—harmoniously chant-
ing a tranquillizing mantra of a “fountain
flowing deep and wide, deep and wide,
deep and wide...” All is hidden—incest is
the nigger of the sensual world.
HEAVEN
Legions of powdered pigeon feathers fall
gently from the love-polluted firmament.
Quietly settling on privatized puzzles of
reflectional debris scattered around the
cemented desert. Finely chopped up by
state-subsidized butchers. Lined up in
flaming barricades of disciplined fossils
during the never ending second ahead of
the ever approaching vehemence. Finally
transferred—via clandestine labyrinths of
Nobel Prize plumbing—deep into the rav-
ening nostrils of runaway marionettes.
FIX
Suddenly, seemingly unallied bus driv-
ers mightily strike, staging an unforeseen
coup as they abandon their means of pro-
duction en masse, leaving on the acridly
buzzing radios—the inevitably to-be-shot
heralds of moderate etiquette: forcefully
balanced neutrality. As unrestrained herds
of four-legged humanimals flock to the
mesmerizing flashmob, the in-between
voice shouts out the utterly greatest of
last year's backbreaking news. A choir of
soprano smartphones enlightens the sky.

HIVE
A THIEF TOOK. A COP SERVED. A KILLER
SHOCKED. A JUSTICE CUT. A POLITI-
CIAN DID. A COMMENTATOR SAID.
A VOTER CROSSED. AN ANARCHIST
BROKE. AN ARTIST STRIKED. A POET
DOTTED. A CONVEYOR TRAVELLED. AN
ENTERPRISE SOARED. A HUNTER SHOT.
A VESSEL SUNK. A HERO SAVED. A VAG-
ABOND LOST. A LETTER EXPLODED. A
LOVER BETRAYED. AN ANIMAL ATE. A
CREATOR MADE. A BELIEVER DOUBLED.
A TERRORIST DROPPED. A DIRECTOR
HEADED. A SAVAGE BEHEADED. A NO-
BODY WAS. A NATION WAS NOT. A NO-
TION WAS MAYBE. A MEDIUM WORKED.
MORE
The shit hits the fan. And the fan shit the
hits. And the hits become popular clicks.
Two sides to antagonize without risking.
Five ways to swim without touching wa-
ter. Seven days to spend in a bottomless
hot spring of glory without losing oxygen.
Nine peculiar lives to lead without notic-
ing. Ten or eleven explicit commandments
to keep in a bulletproof safe by a chartered
accountant. Twelve months to count—to
count in and count out. Equally many
apostles to bat without blinking.
KNEE
At the centre of a royally ornamented
square, surrounded by fishhook-like flag-
poles and haunted crystal meth palaces, a
hole in the ice-covered ground draws 360
degrees attention. Around it, a uniformed
brass band of malformed misfits plays
Strawberry Fields. A jet black and empty
faced, genderless mortal—its iron-coated
neck garnished with endangered snakes—
monotonously repeats a forbidden refrain
from the forsaken innards of innocent
bystanders: “Love not the world, neither
the things that are in the world.” BOOM!
A geyser of distilled saliva kills infidels in
thousands.
FLU
Raindrops travel upwards—the traffic
heads backwards. Delicatessen enter
the rectum—exit the mouth undigested.
Disliked letters leave the screen via can-
dle wax fingers, silently downwards the
blossoming spinal cord, into the over-
nourished earth of original words. From
deserted rooftops, leftover filmmakers
turn their lenses to a carnivalesque bat-
talion of semi-headless creatures, carried
by bastards of angles and apes, ceremo-
niously marching towards an omniabsent
tomorrow of unwritten territories, atonally
trumpeting a radically realistic demand:
“NO MORE REALITY!”
GONE
The first becomes last. And the last be-
comes next. And the next becomes fast.
And the fast becomes text. And the text
becomes question that's vexed. Silver
coins and plastic stripes join long-de-
feated forces. Sugar-coated toxic fruits
ride overdone pieces of decadent horses.
Mobs of filthy zeros float an inch above
nullpunkt—blatantly looting the lungs of
last monkeys standing. Gangs of pinioned
birds sing missing pseudo-psalms from
future crashes—a tickling strain of absinth
fills the air.
FOOD
GROUND ZERO
Artwork
Magnús Dagur Sævarsson
Words by
Snorri Páll Jónsson Úlfhildarson
Kaldi, Icelandic
microbrewery
Stella Artois
White- and red wine
Sparkling wine
Cocktail of the day
NEW BAR MENU
Bergstaðastræti 37
Tel: 552 5700
www.galleryrestaurant.is
gallery@holt.is
Selected drinks
at half price
All you need
in one place
www.handknit.is
ONLY
SWEATER
SELECTION,
NO KNITING
MATERIAL
36 The Reykjavík GrapevineIssue 1 — 2015POETRY
This is a poem by our friend and frequent contributor Snorri.
This seems like the perfect time to print some poetry. Enjoy!