Down Down Down – Ingólfur Eiríksson

 

 I.  Catacombe. 

 

There is a great risk of moisture damage here. 

 

My nose glued to the damp wall 

And the bunk that I have buried myself in 

Decayed like an ancient dock 

But I have never been afraid of heights until now. 

 

Below me bellows 

An ocean of plastic bags. 

 

Photo albums and snippets of paper 

A message in a bottle 

Floating upward from the Underworld. 

 

Memories, dreams, thoughts 

In letters, invoices, certificates. 

 

Their visage rises from the bags, 

 

Swamp men 

From the mud. 

 

Shoo! Away with you! 

This is a studio apartment! 

The state of the rental market is no concern of mine, 

I have enough problems as it is! 

 

Yet the plastic bags increase 

 

Strange. 

 

I have neglected the domestic chores, 

Have dragged my feet along the floor, 

And tripped on the memories of others. 

 

Quite like old times. Yes, No? 

 

I remember the golden handle dissolving 

In sweaty palms 

And the aimless wandering out of the Church 

Pallbearers rowing for their lives. 

 

I remember an empty apartment 

And these plastic bags. 

 

I am surrounded by signs I can not read. 

 

I have dived into the memories of others, 

Unable to swim. 

II.   Catastasis

 

I feel faint when I descend the stairs, 

See the spiral staircase gliding down into the abyss 

And the Sea of Dreams 

Rising two centimetres each year. 

 

No one lives on the floor below me, 

no one has wanted to come near it 

Since the politician 

Remember 

It was in the papers 

For days on end 

Remember  

The doors to the apartment drank the odour of bouquets  

For months. 

 

Dip my toes into the water. 

 

Strange 

 

Not soaked with dreams, 

More like stepping through a cloud. 

 

III.   Catastrophe 

 

Down  

          Down 

                     Down 

                                Down 

                                            Down 

The hill we go. 

 

The spiral staircase is crammed with people 

More crowded by the minute. 

 

Reticent I gaze at the water 

And what lurks in the Deep. 

 

Gold! 

Upon Gold! 

 

But those that would swim 

In this lake of promises 

Come up 

With coins for eyes 

Their hands full 

Of sunset. 

 

Yet the water rises. 

 

Strange. 

 

Mountains and plains, 

Waters and cities, 

Rip off their white fur coat 

Moaning sweatily: 

I can’t breathe in this heat! 

 

And still the water rises. 

 

Down  

            Down 

                       Down 

                                  Down 

 

I have been awakened by the thud from suitcases, 

Being dragged down the stairs 

Softly 

Or with outrageous 

Indifference. 

 

I have walked past deserted apartments 

And read the names on the doors 

And asked myself: 

Who is supposed to remove them? 

 

IS THAT ME? 

 

If only one had a saw. 

 

Or if one had a knife 

To drive into the doors 

And carve a message  

That screams:  NOBODY LIVES HERE! 

 

They would bleed the stuff that sunsets are made of. 

 

Still there hangs a bouquet on the door 

Where the politician remember 

For months on end 

Remember… 

Do you remember? 

 

I have put on my swimming trunks 

But have been unable to locate my glasses. 

 

I have descended at least a million steps 

And at least a million stairs. 

 

My towel I left outside the apartment. 

 

I am in line, 

Neither first 

Nor last. 

But I am in line. 

By the billions we stand in our swimwear. 

This house is still densely populated. 

 

I have never felt so clearly 

That I am sixty percent water. 

My hair rises like a fountain, 

The head that droops is a water fall. 

 

If only I had blue eyes, 

Which could drink up all the water. 

The water that rises and the gold that sinks 

Down  

           Down 

                      Down 

                                  Down 

To the bottom.