29. (planet of the apes / december 10 2014)

^{translated from the Norwegian by Gabriel Gudding}

after ten years      i quit writing in my diary 
and started an epic poem      it grew unwieldy and greedy
and far too pretty      stuffed with vacant rooms 
plastic palms stabbing empty air      fishless aquariums lit
for the cleaning staff      the leather in armchairs
shining like butter      not like in real epics
where it’s crawling with people      around the clock
and no one lives where they should      they roam the roads
sleepless paperless      sleeping in bus stations
fleeing in the middle of the night      writing without the peace to write 
thinking without the time to think      eating while standing
sleeping while sitting      washing in rainwater and
living in cars       until the prisons throw their gates open 
and the mutilated body of the villain 
is burned on the city dump
and the heroes get to speak out on tv
about how they’re ashamed of their medals
claiming they’re just regular people
talking about how      when we all crawled out of the forest
and no one recognized us anymore      we made fuses
out of old extension cords      and spools of yarn      and we stole power
with baling wire and duct tape      and then there were those others
who used to pet the cat      and tinker at the piano
after long shifts in the deathcamps      and taught one another
to never hang clothes out to dry      on the days when it blew
from the crematorium      and those upstanding people 
who were forced to forget      everything they’d learned 
at school      a people of children      who had to instruct 
even smaller children      and fashionable at last 
i was the last to want to be epic      i only wanted to be left alone
with the previous century      i examined what i had made
the cities glowed like low fires      the clouds rose like snowy mountains
the oceans of the world were black holes      behind unlocked doors
buildings were swarming with apes      they lived in the corridors
on fruit and vermin      i tried to be one of them      they didn’t like me
but they let me be in the end     and in our ink dark fur we 
flowed like brooks in the stairwells      and it was fitting
the light had gone      because in my epic
i don’t want to see the poet