miðvikudagur, júlí 31, 2013

hér, nú

Disembarking, the scent of flowers washes over her, until she realizes it is the sea.

þriðjudagur, mars 12, 2013


You have nothing to say to me.

You never have, but I am less patient now, less willing to grant you polite audience.

I have heard your incoherent roar before, the rushing sound of thick water against the eardrum as the top of the throat slams shut. You have filled my nighttime head before with mad chattering and dreams of annihilation.

I cannot stop you. You will rage and tear through my world and the days and nights of my loved ones, but I will grant you no more of my life, waking and sleeping, than I must.

You have nothing to say to me, to anyone, and never have. 

You may go to hell.

miðvikudagur, febrúar 13, 2013


Islay scotch
two slices of cucumber
two young leaves of basil
ice cube
The proportions are left as an exercise for the reader.

mánudagur, janúar 07, 2013


New year swoops in, flaring a many-fingered hand of flight feathers, braking in the air for a snatch and drop.
Audubon ought to have seen it, but it's only me and the dog looking on from the corner.

Now he pauses under the low canopy of a bush.When he flaps up into the tree I can see the limp body in his  talons. Last year? Or just yesterday? It's so small and still. Takk fyrir það gamla, það litla.

In any case, good morning, good morning, slate back and clear eyes. Gleðilegt ár.

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