Eivind Buene’s poetic reverie after a week at the Disko


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IMG_5051 - Arbeitskopie 2A site specific poem after a week at the Disko and since you are no poet you have to create a file labelled POETRY on your laptop, now deliciously online in the waiting lounge at Ilulissat airport, and aren't all poems site specific anyway? but so no more plastic bag toilets, no more stinking packs of half-wild huskies that would gladly chew your leg of if it weren't for the brittle chains, no more whiffs of fish drying on the wooden racks, or rotting, difference is hard to tell, and no more bracelets of mosquito bites to scratch in the cold mornings, but also no more late night talks, no toy piano and mask dances, no more one-man-opera and iceberg watching, no more singing kayaks disappearing into the fog, no Eskimo rolls and Pop Trigger and throat singing and million dollar ideas to share, no more sealskin hot pants or ptk ptk in the sun, no more snacking on dried fish and tender treats of raw whale skin, no Inuit games and churchclassroomlecturehalls with broken windows and instant coffee, at least no more of all this in a single day, no carrying that electric piano away over moss and tussocks and lichened stone, no talking to the mountain in violent screams and no more rivers of feces in yellow bags or on the silver screen, no waking up stung by the sun with a polar bear breathmint on your tongue, no more of that graveyard by the arctic sea with all those flowers, and surely they must have been plastic, no? And no pages left of the adventures of Sir Franklin and Captain Subzero, and no regrets for pictures you didn't take with the camera you didn't bring and your images, all fresh and with that bloody tinge will fade to white so delicately and fast, just like every other present turn into past.

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