Name: Bragi Páll Sigurðarson
(Bragi = Old Norse god of poetry / Páll = Old Norse word for shovel / Sigurðarson = Son of victory)
Born in 1984
Started lying/telling stories 1985
First job as sailor 1992
Possessed by ********* since birth
Say the words Adam: Pretense, moderation, convenience, politeness.
Pick the words, then things will appear.
The speculations are not the problem, just the words we attach to them.
Cheers in The Swamp!
Half-finished proud thoughts get lost - the crowd stole them.
Nero gets his tuner,
who set Reykjavík on fire?
You perfect being, what are you doing here?
Can't you see, we are stuck inside a sinking submarine, the water is leaking in.
What do we do Adam?
The eggbeaters stick out of the speakers, whisk the misery around.
The light sucks the dignity up from the faces, into the ceiling, where peoples reputation form stalactites.
Then it drops to the floor, all muddy and filthy.
Cheers in The Bog!
The cute ones sing their love songs on the iceberg long into the night.
I will serve you - for thirty to sixty years,
if you'll pay for the taxi.
This has to be a conspiracy, literally everyone spilling beer on me!
My consciousness slowly spins in circles gathering info,
processes, delivers a report: Unacceptable outcome!
There is the lady, Adam, talk to her:
Hey, wanna take a walk with me, just for a while?
I'm only rambling...
...like to join me?
Consequences collide with decisions, youth follows old age.
Obligations made of sand blow into the wind and don't exist for when they vanish then appears
The Road. Winds around the shelters.
You want some of that?
Then the sorrow streams out of the eyes,
gushes down the cheeks,
cascades over the smile.
I ask Adam for advice.
He answers me with incredibly beautiful sculpted sentences answers to everything.
He's always fooling around, always with the affectations.
Now he's asking for salvation with a pinch of solution and a cup of self image.
Hey/Why are you calling me a left-hand-job?
Do you know who I am/Want me to take you on?
I observe - and bet on
who gets the most flies on their windshield
and who gets the swine flu.
Numbers in the news/Surrender in the eyes
Suicide in a garage/Insanity up for grabs
Cheers in The Fish Offal!
I put the code into the digital watch/run for cover/look at the bridge blow to bits.
There goes Adam/he is such a goof/always trying to walk,
over these bridges,
Blow up ALL the bridges behind me.
Well/He knows nothing/Such a simple soul.