It feels like dying, you know...
Oh well, it could be worse. We are sitting above every tower watching our hope losing its dignity, that´s the bright side, yeah we got one honey. Not only we can see it, we are living with our grandmothers drinking red wine while the lost ones are drinking the last drop from this desert of mine. Six minutes is like the neverending story of hours passing days... can you imagine the night crossing years? Oh well, the parade will survive this land, the miles spreading wide, they are not home yet and never will... oh, no. I´m not sure about you, but I´m getting a bit tired of the loss of friendships while there´s none. Long gone they walk, and they are still walking. I will watch, yeah, I will watch them. And the dying ebullience, we should call for an ambulance. Do you really think they´ll learn from it? Do you really think it would be worth it? The ton is careening on its left side, and it tumbles in its self. And by the rite they are building fires... there´s no bourn in sight. There´s no rooftops, only the red sky reflecting the color of this shoreless clime.

Sarah? Are you still with me?
John! Where´s my whiskey?

And, John! One more thing... pick up the phone and call for a fleeting succor. I´m having some struggles with this world.  
Viktor Kaldalóns
1987 - ...


Ljóð eftir Viktor Kaldalóns

Sær í átt að sæng.
Ástarljóð til hins visna.
Minn kæri vin... það mun versna.
Málverk stöðnunar.
St. Coll.
Windows blow in like ten thousand ice floes upon the snowy quarters.
The brighter side of the day goes down in three, two, one...
Náðarhögg.
The first lightpost on St. Coll.
My date of birth kept in memory of a bartender (pt. one).
My date of birth kept in memory of a bartender (pt. two).
It feels like dying, you know...
Útöndun.
Our graves undulate with fever.
Fáninn lágreisti.
The regent roads to nowhere; the end of the world.
Just like the corner of all nights.
Just like the corner of the day...
Tunglhaf.
Anddyrið kringum sviðið.
Lágröddun.
Væg túlkun.
The dead queen and us.
Endir á litblæ, hulinn bær.
Útrýming.
Líflaus blómstrun.
Skýrar, en þó svo daufar.
Sunnudagsgredda.
Dálæti; og ástin bíður ósigur.
Brotin umgjörð.
Svartur er sjórinn.
Horfin fjarvera.
Og allt varð grátt.
Ljóðið fannst aldrei.
The lively queen and us.
Tilvonandi Eilífðartími.
Dökk spor.
Í eyði.
The prime of the queen.
Sýningin tælandi á sviði slökknandi borgarljósa.
Regina.
Upstream they went towards the valley.
Contiguous grapevine, old and all around.
Unsuited.
Carry a no-win mist inside God´s acre.
With only a wire and death attached.
Drizzling in tween the rest.
Without a pole star and wherries to take us home.
I will leave you dumfounded just like before.
Heilög borg?
Well lit allure of anesthesia.
My naked naiad.
Pharisaic lifetime of a saint.
Einfari; loftmengun.
Brúðguminn.
Þú og ég.
Ylur.
Herskari.
Örvilnun skýjaglópana.
Sjónarhorn skuggsælla engla í sorgarklæðum.
Lof efstu svalanna.
Það er að stytta upp.
Vöggugjöf launmorðingjans.
Blessun.
Fjárhagsörðugleikar nútímablíðu.
Von er...
Vonleysi er...