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