Sunday, 4 April 2010


By Ursula Andkjær Olsen

It is like a garden where everything
is robbed of its name by the great jewel thief.

Bad bad garden.

TELL ME! I am the mass so why am I so
lonely? TELL ME NOW!

You are sucking me dry DAMMIT. You are sucking me dry giant queen and
king kong of all genders you shout to me: "Give usss dessstinies! Lean out! We can’t tell you in advance. Little heart."

I am not heart. Not the heart horrible
bloodsucker that needs me to stand there and PUMP the clammy
parasite. Let me ascend into hymns and howling. I have my heart

sitting everywhere. It is eating me up from inside and you? YOU suck me dry.

Are you trying to hatch me OUT?
I am your dirty eggz? Tyrannosaurus Flex. HAHA.

Will I reflect my top in the wave’s
blah blah blah. Huh?

Death and chaos and nameless, here you come, what are you but an
unbridled consumption of

And order would that be better NO from here where I sit chaos looks like the only possible freedom. Stuff it, you can stuff it you GIANT. FART.

Everything that doesn’t kill me makes me more and more
nameless. Only in paradise will this nameless thing in me open up and

flourish. Paradise after closing time when they’re not watching. For DAMMIT they’re always
watching PARAFART. It's that pissy fence.

Good Breast and Bad Breast that’s you. I should have been
Enemy Of The State and the Serpent in Other People’s False Paradises. I would have to clear the Milky Way of stars:

Lean out!
I'll throw up. That is what is expected.

Giant DAMMIT you will not eat me until I am destiny. Eat me. Drink me.
Smoke me until I become destiny. Suck. Giant giant destiny. You can smoke it. Smoke me now and tell me then.

And spare me this original

idyllic and solemn
alienation. PLEASE! Turn off that horrible PUMP I am
open and have hearts everywhere.

Let me anoint your mouthpieces. I am alone. In the midst of idyll and solemn icy garden this cold blue grotto where the sigh-stones drip. Incredibly quiet. I have
the seconds sitting. Seconds all over the place.

In the midst of solitude and intimacy. It is piss-dialectical to be
a social tit- and political creature one must separate in order to meet. First one must hang together and then one must separate

in order to meet. One must

tear out one’s hair in order to meet.
MAYBE one must die in order to meet? Is that what you’re saying you big

PISS!? Is that the kind of story you have got to tell?!
With eye for an eye super-bloodshot while
I sit with sighs and

seconds all over the clothes. DAMMIT where is my sobriety?
DAMMIT I am throwing up no

YOU are throwing ME

up as stars and eating me when I fall. If I can’t
stay up in the sky. AND DAMMIT I CAN’T I fall down.

S'il vous plaît! How many times does my
face have to split? Before I get a name. Breast Buddy and
Soft Brain. My heart that fucking parasite. Until YOU slake your thirst.

Just slake your thirst I’ll give you destiny. BITTE schön. Beat beat. Look here I come
with a belly full! Here’s the fat dripping TELL ME NOW!

Do I have my heart in the right place? What are we going to do about all that beating? DAMMIT. Everywhere and all over the place. The heart in the garden in the garden in the garden in the garden in the garden in the garden in the garden in the garden I suppose it will make the nights whiter. Supersuperwhite. Will it for example tell me that loneliness comes before individuality?

Is it the name or the nameless that must be kept behind
fence under lock and key. HAHA. Is it me or is it

YOU BIG! And must it be looked after and watered or starved to death or both? OH. So that they are singing both of them

Good Breast and Bad Breast. Both Big Prick and Carrot. Them I will swing between that is destiny. That we can call a quadruple grip on my BALLS that is destiny? YES? You give all the names.

All that YOU have given me in the belly: security and both breasts and prick and carrot. DAMMIT how small I am.

YOU give both reality and dreams and I am the quiet before the name. Oh. TELL ME.

My dolls. Breast Buddy and Enemy Of The State. I gave them names
bury them with me when I die. Sweet sweet big

alarm. Let me howl and die.
The skin of my ass blossoms and becomes wings

flapping wings.

translated from Danish by David McDuff

No comments: