:: Article

Bonarcotica & other poems

By Maren Nygård.


The erection: his mistress only delivers
cigarette holes in their arms protesting
that he already desires a woman’s bonarcotics
tobacco haze of capitalism
she discovers her own body: her dependuted super-communist pamphlets in union
first experiences, an is ordinarily weeping and undressing while the sirens pay his partner, or court, solicits
alamos wailed them down, and wailed
the young girl is courted and solicited ewall, and the Staten Island ferry also
with the man, he is the one who takes
often older and more experienced, crying in white gymnasiums naked
aggressive and imperious. Lover or husband, hebling, before the machinery of the other in bed, where her only choice is to let go the neck and shriek with delight that engulfs her. Her modesty may have been tacars for committing no crime, but their roots. Men and women all know the shame cooking pederasty and intoxication, immobile presence, its unjustified immanence their knees in the subway
the absurd contingence of the roof waving genitals and men who say they cannot stand to be fucked in the ass by saintly activity
force, cock is no longer blown by human seraphims, modesty paralyses young men much less than caresses of the Atlantic and Caribbean
aggressive role exposes them less to being gazed in the morning, in the evening in the rose, they do not fear of being judged because it is not the grass of public parks and mistresses demands of them, it is rather, scattering their semen freely to have the option of transforming her flesh into will. Come who may.
She gives it up without defenses.

Cyber me baby

A declaration like this one, then you remember
a sheet of paper from the knitter-woman
we found ourselves in a digital landscape
‘I didn’t receive one’ everything was as it is here
‘everyone received one but you?
‘perhaps it fell’ just soft and transparent
you could sink your toes into rocks like moss
‘don’t move, don’t touch a thing!’ huge, glowing birds flew straight through them
I am forced to communicate this
enveloped by digital air
we entered a wondrous space
perhaps it’s not necessary, unreal, weightless
I am a defender of the people transmitted from an unclear source
‘I regret, forgive me,’ don’t say we were surrounded by transparent walls
‘Form!’ pleaded Aaron, quivering and you were transparent.
They’re numbered. I’m not allowed. As if made of fog you walked
without tripping over anything
I’ll fill it according to regulation and the magnetized words
he had by then begun to lose
his dignity, were like a puff of air
‘what’s going on here?’ Barked
lightly moving hair
He was very angry, and we experienced unspeakable lightness
‘Dushansky! Without batting an eye, we could enter one another, prepare an indictment
fly into one another with our bodies.’
‘Don’t punish me.’
When we did that, suddenly we were switched off.


Put it in
I fantasize about Frank, or Frankie?
car sex
car sex
There is only so much room in an attic.
I tell you with
You are stranger than me, aren’t you?
These are essentially just intellectual games,
or so we think they are
call it
car sex
car sex
call it
Humping mustangs.
pick up the phone, I’m holding it in.
‘You idiot’
I say
you say
this lousy t-shirt is Hounslow
I’m floating with Piri piri Chicken.
It’s mother’s day and you ask about orphans.
Car sex
car sex.
There is only so much room in an attic
I tell you with
they told me
you can appear happy
I tell you
All bets are off, including crying
car sex


Maren Nygård is a Norwegian poet and editor. She recently graduated from Kingston University where she was a member of the Experiments and Innovations in Poetry program. Here she found herself at home and continues to write and explore experimental poetry in both English and Norwegian.

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Wednesday, October 5th, 2016.