Obligations
It sounds like mining,
sounds like growling heavy tools
I'm coughing my lungs out
at the bottom of January's air pressure
A turboprop passes along its doppler effect,
straight-lined
in its lofty darkness on high;
fine-clothed passengers orderly dispersed
in quadruple rows
Everything exists in a relentlessly whining manner,
though nothing is as endless as it seems
There is a curvature waiting
for the long distance traveller
I'm reaching for my dick,
fullfilling my obligation
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
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Written on 2025-01-10 at 10:18
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by Ingvar Loco Nordin Latest textsMortalityTime Passages Obligations The Theft Jimmy Carter |
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