HomeArchivesSubmissionsCorpse MallOur GangHot Sites
Ezquisite Corpse - A Journal of Letters and Life
All Poetry & Nothing ButClash of CivilizationsEC ChairFeatured PoetsForeign DeskGalleryStage
Hedonism: Theory & PracticeLetters & GlossolaliaArt of MarriageMoney TalkPets & BeastsZounds
All Poetry & Nothing But

Five Poems
by Carsten Rene Nielsen

Five Poems
translation by David Keplinger

Udstilling

Pa komfuret star en kasserolle med brasndte rester af lys, det er aften, havet har lukket sit oje, og astronomernes fugle flakser allerede rundt mellem skyggerne pa loftet. Alligevel tor du ikke se mig i ojnene og hvisker dit ansigt ud med en blod klud, idet du nogen laegger dig i maleriets ramme og lader dig udstille. Langsomt spreder du benene, sa dine laeber kan lukke sig om andedrsettet, for du er spaendt ud i denne times vakuum, din krop krydset over verdens midte.



Udefra

Handvaerkerne rev husets vestvendte facade ned, gik til frokost, og vendte ikke tilbage. Beboerne er ikke flyttet endnu, og fra gaden kan man folge deres daglige goremal: Nogle sidder ved et bord og spiser, en ligger i sengen og laeser, en anden stovsuger med apatiske, sieve bevaegelser og et fravaerende, tomt ansigtsudtryk. Nar man gar forbi om aftenen, kan man opieve, at alle beboerne i ejendommen sidder og ser fjernsyn pa samme tid. Set udefra er det et forbloffende, foruroligende syn: Det er bagsiden af deres ansigter, som vender fremad.


Munden

Jeg moder dig en frysende kold decemberdag pa Stroget lige foran Sailing, og du taler og taler: Bla gnister springer mellem taendernes solvkontakter, mens stemmen abner og lukker kraniets relae, og mens det langsomt bliver morkere, skriver alle endnu ikke forte samtaler sig selv ud pa den uendelige telegrafrulle, som er din tunge. Forst da taendernes emalje spraekker under belastningen og abner op til en hel gletscher af hvid smerte, sa rodderne snor sig rundt om kaeben og taenderne knalder sammen som en bjornefaelde, holder du endelig din kasft.




Flodhest

Nar en flodhest dor, udstoder den et brol, sa fiskene falder dove til bunds. Flodhesten er en stor oppustet mavesaek overtrukket med skind, et naturens vidunder, der flyder, aeder, knepper og kun sveder blod, nar den er sovnig. Det sidste brol slipper al luften ud. Ingen har derfor endnu set en dod flodhest.



Akvarium

Hun klasder sig af, traeder op i glaskassen, stikker fodderne ned gennem hullerne i bunden og traekker den op omkring sig, sa gummiringene slutter taet omkring hendes lar. Jeg haefter kassen fast i kasderne, der haenger ned fra loftet, og abner sa for hanen. Idet vandet nar op til kanten, tommer jeg posen med guldfisk ned i kassen og skubber de to overste plader sammen omkring Det er bagsiden af deres apsigter, som vender fremad. hendes hals. Sadan elsker hun, at jeg ser hende: Som en torso i et akvariums lys.
Exhibition

On the stove stands a pot with burned remains of light, it is evening, the sea has closed its eye, and the birds of the astronomers already flutter among the shadows on the loft. Still, you do not dare to look me in the eye; you wipe away your face with a soft cloth as you lie down naked inside the frame of the painting to exhibit yourself. Slowly you spread your legs, and your mouth clamps the breathing in, for you are stretched out in the vacuum of this hour. The X of your body marks the center of the world.



From outside

The handymen tore down the westward facade of the house, went to lunch and did not return. The residents have not moved out yet, and from the street you can study their everyday routines: Some are sitting at a table to dine, one is reading in his bed, another is vacuuming with sluggish, dreary movements and a vacant expression on his face. In the evening when you walk by, you may observe that everyone in the building sits and watches television at the same time. Seen from this viewpoint the sight is bizarre, disquieting: they wear their faces inside out.



The mouth

I meet you on a freezingly cold December day on the walking street right in front of Sailing, and you talk and you talk: Blue sparks fly between the silver switches of the teeth as the voice opens and closes the relay of the skull, and while it slowly gets darker all the conversations we're ever to have are printed out on the infinite telegraph tape that is your tongue. Only when the enamel of the teeth cracks under the strain and opens up to an entire glacier of white pain, so that the roots wind around the jaw and the teeth slam together like a bear trap, do you finally shut the hell up.



Hippopotamus

When a hippopotamus dies it lets out a roar, so that the fish fall deaf to the bottom. The hippopotamus is a big inflated stomach covered with a hide, a wonder of nature that floats, eats, fucks and only sweats blood when it's drowsy. The final roar releases all the air. That's why no one has seen a dead hippopotamus.



Aquarium

She undresses, steps up into the box of glass, sticks her feet down through the holes in the bottom and pulls it up around her, so that the rubber rings fit tightly around her thighs. I fasten the box to the chains that hang down from the ceiling and then open the faucet. As the water reaches the edge, I empty the bag containing goldfish into the box and push the two top plates together around her neck. This is the way she loves that I see her: As a torso in the light of an aquarium.

All Poetry & Nothing ButClash of CivilizationsEC ChairFeatured PoetsForeign DeskGalleryStage
Hedonism: Theory & PracticeLetters & GlossolaliaArt of MarriageMoney TalkPets & BeastsZounds

©1999-2003 Exquisite Corpse.