Friday, November 17, 2017

The Bug

now, no obstacles for your little morning walk across the table top. up the glass did not succeed, you slid down, repeatedly tried to clamber up again, a tiny red-hulled Sisyphus, moribund in the wintry sun: the meagrier the merrier, the calm and calmier. we all must have some purpose in life. go, a den, seamstress, scissors, the stitching of the hem. we all must wear the corduroys this morning on our little walk to the hillocks. we must abandon all hope, as we slide down the glass panel, repeatedly. how we climb the cordilleras, how we descend, it us alone that we know the weight of every step taken, the size of the shoe, the make, the faded colors, worn undersoles, the skis leaning against the back of the ski cabin. no, we rather sail, bounce off the alligators' backs, snowbound others, stuck in the gondola cabins, the Alpine yodelers, the inbred climbers, up and down, up and down, into the forest lake—skidmarks on the mountain road, anderen, swanderen, hillfart, baumgarten, hochstofffulendorf, the four wheels wheeling emptily. 


Thursday, June 22, 2017

One for the Sharks

How do you feel about sharks? The great white. No known natural predators other than the humans, which reduces its conservation status to Vulnerable. Or, the oceanic whitetip: marvelous specimen, this beautiful, gentle, slow-moving fish experiences occasional feeding frenzies, and will present a joyful sidekick to shipwreck or air crash survivors. Alas, its hefty fins are highly valued as the gourmet ingredient for the shark fin soup, and, as with other shark species, the whitetip faces extinction. 


Sunday, June 11, 2017



Through the dappled light, low brow, violence prone stupidity, no matter where one looks. How much this Earth has suffered thus far—unimaginable. Every tear of the Dostoevskian child, multiplied unimaginably. Through the golden morning, low brow, uniformed prone stupidity, their feudal masters controlling the one-eyed monster, blaring incessantly its call to more death and mayhem, wars to no end.

Saturday, April 22, 2017

God and His Typewriter

I, He, Being Bearded, smoking cigars, drinking daiquiris, and vodka martinis, typing, oh, to be typing once more—one more time to be typing, to be making the world indeed! For god sat behind the typewriter once he started creating this world! This world, nothing but a typewritten page—after page—but clear, black and white, strike, after strike, letters, what letters, why these and not some others—

painting by Augustus, John

Thursday, January 19, 2017



in the drawer left the manila folder hand. folded, manhandled, there must be a handle at hand, nearby. a handle? a windup handle for a gramaphone? yes, the record collection scattered to the eight winds, lost, abandoned, exiled, murdered. a deft hand. sliding. a glider. the wind in the boughs, high, perhaps a kite is being flown—like the festival of early boyhood? the Koinobori. down the stream of oblivion then, hands, palms up, down the river of no return: on your right, Heraclitus, the dark one, the gloom and doom; on your left? a woman? ethereal. white, too white, pinkish, pinker than your dark pinkness, gliding, her nipples erect above the surface of the flowing water. your nipples visible also. in the distance, the nipple-tops of the nihon-mountain, the snowhite nipple of the Fujisan, all of us flowing down the river, indistinguishable, replaceable, unindividualized, depersonalized, unidentifiable, folded, unfolded, fetus-like, manhandled, left in the long forgotten drawer, with the layers of dust accumulating. the manila folders of our lives: Palimpsest.

boris gregoric C 2017.

Wednesday, January 11, 2017

More Poems About Vasya...

More Poems About Vasya and His Daily Adventures

...there goes vasya,
down the vale,
the stars are lighting,
the limitless abode,
a song vasya sings,
the leather jacket
slung over the shoulder,
the words ringing, echoing:
Над Енисеем в дымке синей Гул величавый кедрача...
В сердечной песне у России Душа живого Ильича.


vasya and vasko

in a tavern nameless, small,
in the mid of the Vršac town,
this morn the two
comrade-gents meet
eh, vasya, vasya!
oh, vasko, vasko!
they embrace,
as if they've not seen ea other
there be twenty some
odd years
vodka, orders vasya
travarica says vasko
the words rolls,
the letters spill,
the Slava, the fireworks, the revelry—


a left shoe vasya takes off
lounging in the grassy lea—
everything of interest,
the ants most of all—
the steamer (whiteassnow) down the Yenisee flows
the distances beckon
the heart of a jacktar

the bees and bumblebees brawnm
vasya drops off, nods,
the smiling lips,
dew on the grass

a pink cloud gliding in the sky
the breeze breezing
vasya blinking—
эй, жизнь, жизнь

in dream, he's sighing
his big toe
the air deftly defying


goes there vasya fishes to net
the amur flows
the Fish abundant
the ice cracking
the boots squeaking
nu ladna, ladna
the carp he adresses
while the latter, poor soul,
lets go of it—for even
fish has got a soul
and what thoughtest thou—hath is not?

Bo Gregorson: is a contemporay Icelandic writer and translator (b. 1962, Reykavik).