Kristian Wikborg Wiese (b. 1986) works as a non-fiction editor in the Norwegian publishing house Spartacus Forlag. He is a regular contributor in the newspaper Vårt Land for which he writes literary criticism. From 2011–2016 he edited the poetry journal la Granada.Wiese’s poetry has appeared in various Norwegian and English journals, as well as the anthology Gruppe 11 (Kolon Forlag 2011). In 2014 his first novel, Avtrykk, was published by Vigmostad & Bjørke. In 2019 he will publish a collection of poems titled Luxembourghagen (Beijing Trondheim). He lives in Oslo, Norway.
every morning you wake up and hate yourself, but you’re so funny anyway.
as sure as today soon is tomorrow, and that it’s raining
as sure as you place the other foot in front of the first
has everything been said, when the chestnut leaves are falling, maybe from the other side of a window, where weather hungry lamps keeps the traffic alive. your face is crooked, you don’t recognize yourself in the glass. the nose more bent then usual, the nook in your forehead more pressing. your hair is similar to a child’s. taste of numbness
and the walls part. After lipstick
mustard stains, high heels, music while you ponder layouts
one old roman saying
at a time
brown pale around the corner she hits you
whispers of rhodesia, and she dances with her arms above her head
tonight the moon melts into the wall and the pictures
floats through the window you see the birds
in the ashes on the table of someone you don’t know who lies in the bathroom
tears and flowers like an illness between the breath
head in the lap of someone who will disappear on the last day of autumn
equator collides. as nothing has happened
in the mirror the body expands in the bed where she keels over
in pearls and your shining crown slides like a needle through the moment
between months that grow outside the 24 hour pharmacy
she touches you when she is drunk when she can’t sleep
when she want’s to make love when you brush your teeth
when she is supposed to cook when you watch a film
when you lie in the grass when you walk along the river
when you work
months or quarters later you meet one night the street flows over
of people who pretends they have lost their way home
she says «it’s beautiful, one morning we’ll awake
and everything will be in flames»
together with you the lights disappear from the
apartment, all the time there’s noice from the station. is it a bad idea to
take the car to rome, perhaps madrid? see what they’re up to there, some day in
october. there’s always an alarm ringing. you are seven billon people
independent of land borders. so you open the windows and decide while there’s
still time to see
the sky breed planets
