Coup d'état
This whole wet machinery -
built just to lift a thought
Hard to ignore,
the pleura, the gutwork,
the fat beneath the skin,
the furrowed grey of mind,
the nerves in every fingertip
(We've all seen JFK's substance
smeared across the sun-heated flank
of the motorcade)
We are all soaked machines,
spilling across the planet's ominous murmur,
legions of leaks and fractured speech,
guttural mutterings
bloated with busy meanings
It's hard to look past all that
in a snap judgment -
meat & blood & arrogance of being
But John Cage & Samuel Beckett
pour whole amphorae of light
through the fatal folds
of their spiritual coup d'état
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin

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Written on 2025-05-07 at 13:53




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Ingvar Loco Nordin |
Albert Vynckier |