All is mostly work these days. That is to say, work that pays money. Which means less time for worthless occupations secretly intended to destroy capitalism (through the dickish laziness of poetry). Tomorrow I go to Warzaw, Poland, to meet with Political Critique, along with my comrades in Nýhil. We [...]
Next saturday I will perform at the poetry Festival Verbale Pupiller in Aarhus, Denmark. It’s an international festival and amongst the guests this year are Cia Rinne, Charles Bernstein, Tua Forsström, Anne Cotten, Annelie Axen, Johan Jönson, Morten Søndergaard and Jan Erik Vold – and many others. It’s also a [...]
Are you tired of writing your own damn poems? Does it feel like you’d rather plunge through the fiery gates of hell rather than come up with one more metaphor/ simile/ aphorism to explain the human condition? There’s so much poetry in the world already! So much language! Why make [...]
Lo, the oogly woogly wiggly toes of my puffinous pinkster!
Lo, the perpetual whirlpool of his gung ho rainbows!
Lo, the sabre-dancing jiggifunk of his eyeyeyeyeyes!
Behold his umpteen-breasted olympic warrior, mother-of-it-all, and recognize!
August 26, 2009 in The New Illiterati
I’ve just read some of your poetry and liked one line about the swastika in somebody’s nazi soup. All the rest strikes me as happily as receiving “GROW YOUR PENIS 3 INCHES LONGER AND THICKER” spam. I don’t have a penis, so haven’t the yearning to grow it longer and [...]
‘Twas the eve of Nýhils 2nd international poetry festival, late autumn 2006. I was the manager for the second year in a row. For some reason I can’t remember we didn’t have any microphones. The Norwegian poet, Gunnar Wærness, had misunderstood his flight-information and missed his flight. The Swedish poets [...]
Imagine a poem so robust and resourceful that it could survive humanity. Imagine that the Americans finally go completely bonkers and rip the globe apart with liberational glee, the nuclear dust finally settles and all that’s left of mankind is poetry. The mark of craftsmanship has always been durability. A [...]
I became a poet for more or less the same reason everybody else did: I’m lazy and I wanted to sleep late. That was the job description. You get to sleep late, drink late and most people won’t ever find out you’re stupid because what you do is beyond comprehension [...]
A few years ago the Icelandic poetry world was rocked by a tectonic scandal that nobody noticed for weeks (and by now, everyone’s forgotten about). The country’s most prestigious poetry award, Ljóðstafur Jóns úr Vör, was given to the wrong poet. A young man from one of Reykjavík’s neighbouring towns [...]
As I may have mentioned before, poetry was (in Iceland) once considered a gift from God, the misuse of which could result in the loss of said gift. Thus 17th century poet Æri-Tobbi had his gift taken away for giving false directions (in verse) to a group of tourists (all [...]