Never To Nurture
There is always something to say no to,
in one position or another
Each time the pendulum reaches either
of its extremes,
the shock vibrates
like a Stockhausen Paiste gong
The body takes a beating
from worry & doubt
every time I return,
more clearly than when I depart
Both poles are their on fairytales,
their own skewed choices
in between buckled rails;
the farm up north with Anna & the animals
& the forests, the lakes;
the apartment down south
with all its cultural artifacts cluttering;
somewhere in doubt & death proofs; myself,
quickly through age & bodily functions,
almost out of sight
in everything heard & seen; all that's necessary,
on roads that find their way through days and moments,
scorched under the burning Eye
There is always someone
to call oneself;
a self that stands hesitating
between itself,
while the Eye blazes at zenith
and the forest suffers dull
with muggy birds
and meek-made mammals
with urinary problems
In empty buildings
speakers stand tall
with bass, midrange & treble elements
pumping Spotify playlists,
my brain halves conciliating
in the cranial crypt,
behind words and literal forgetfulness;
forgotten literality;
all the apertures of the tenement graves
on a pant
in the incandescent punishment of climate rage;
the Eye flaming out of June's exaggerations,
the bourgeois twilight barely active
even down in Sörmland,
where the walls of the tenement grave surround me
with assertions
and the deaf ears of life's content;
vision barricaded in temporal conceptions,
like the Mima's comforting projections
around the goldonder's fall
into the constellation Lyra,
in an ALWAYS to say no to,
a NEVER to nurture
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
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Written on 2024-06-04 at 12:46
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