#1 Anton Helgi Jónsson (1955 – )
Confessions of a Lucrative Dreamer
I dream of shit. It’s no
secret. I dream of shit.
I can fearlessly spend my anticipated
lottery-winnings during the day.
Most nights I dream tons upon tons of shit.
Exactly how much shit I dream is nobody’s business.
The curious ask if I have any to spare.
Please allow me to phrase my answer neatly:
I hope I have enough shit for me and mine.
Is it then worth the bother to bend down for a coin on the street?
Economists may answer how they will, but I want to
use the opportunity to call attention to life’s details.
Who among us has not woken happy
from a dream about the outhouse of his youth?
I dream of shit. And some nights the glory
gets the better of me. I’m knee-deep in shit. I drown in shit.
And who would then make me out to be a criminal?
My investments are pure excrement.
My foreign bank accounts are bullshit.
In all honesty I have nothing but the children.
The kitchen asks: How will it be with the next downpayment?
How will it be with the electrical bill? How
will it be with the weekend-shopping and the daycare?
I won’t be flushed down so easily.
Tonight I may dream of a manure-depot.
Tonight I may dream of the blue canals and the city’s sewage.
I dream of shit. It’s no
secret. I dream of shit.
Anton Helgi Jónsson
Transl. Eiríkur Örn Norðdahl