Dawn

is a spiritual hunger strike

The body

still has a predilection for the daylight

that sings its way in

between the paprika and tomato plants

of the wildwife's seedbeds

- but with the stingy margins of mere necessity

The house sails on a set course through time,

flash-lit down the smallest reminiscence,

its triple-glazed eyes fixed ahead,

garage & stable following its lead,

the entire estate snared in electric horse fences

I am a free-lodger here,

on a state visit in a love

that over time has become permeated

by pragmatism and sluggishly safe circumstances,

each day submitting its plea

to the collective assessment,

while free-lodging per se

does insert pleasant doubts

and the enforced voluntariness

of jaunty self-inflictions,

which, however, do not prevent me

from hoisting myself with all sails set

sisyphenaly

out of the heavy mercury seas of waking,

through the hovering sequence

of consciousness' transparent mirrors

into gathering flashbacks of myself,

identity eventually ramshackly established;

the tow hitch of concern straining

in all sorts of vague premonitions;

some costly,

others entirely fatal;

the ”how-did-I-end-up-here” loop

a task for the diaries' irrefutable truths

and causality's leaden Sune Karlsson buoy

Between the opening of eyes

and the muesli breakfast's energy-raiding strike

lies a no-man's-land shimmer of truth and origin

in the polygraph of today;

existence resting in a kind of tabula rasa idling

I feel significantly less perpetual now

than before,

yet remain persistent on a weekly basis;

a free-lodger in existence with an uncertain hourly allocation;

one among all others on the way from 6 to 7 AM

on a Friday morning of increasing veracity,

aground in the self-gazing squandering of life signs