#7 Sigfús Bjartmarsson (1955 – )
From Zombie
58
The blood does
not taste any longer
only this resounding colour ill
tempered all over town
drunk on sweat and nails
and the aftertaste of past cheap
tricks and so pink-lucid
in the city-bone yet
the porcelain-eyes keep theirs
rolling the rim of a glass and the hand
jerks and wassails anew
to exalted nylon-legs
and whatever falling
might fall our way and this
wink see the comprehensive glint
coming from the steel-fit
heels the currents of solidarity
the moaning that trails through
the long hip of
leather.
Zombie
it’s perfected
is it not.
And the hand forward
with theatrical majesty
and half-germanic salute
strong hands of the drowning
and the rabble defeated.
So yes
not as if
someone bit you
in the back of the atlas
Zombie.
59
All the same
and the ice out onto
saddened salacious eyes
and handsomely I feel
this likens her and eventually
achieves her haughtiness
strong fragile glint
and escaping mirages
the x-ray visual sequence through
the life-long shards of ruins in
our city stepping on particles
of spent days Zombie and the curse
slowly getting better as it should
and the smile and the words polished
in a palm and indecipherable then
this desperation or whatever
in the fingerspeak of
windowpanes.
And titillation
in the atmos deceased
smells and stone cold in the puddle
Zombie it’s made of water
this bartender and his
black highness she’s
growing in the corner
cheers
and white-square-bishop
en regalia and someone
is making it sound out
Only the lonely which makes
lonely as fuck in the
tongue of my forebears – your
black highness and a growing
growl in the emptiness outside rust-red
cogwheels and turning closer
on the blight-red scale
of colours.
60
And Zombie
when you’ve reached
the bottom of your
humiliation
you automatically reach
but not for the gun
no
but the mirror.
Sigfús Bjartmarsson