Kristian Wikborg Wiese

Kristian Wikborg Wiese


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

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