times three, concentrating (the couagulate of the urin-dweller)
just as I wake into the body;
an uncertain place, hardly speakable,
dusting with evil words
in the gravel-eyed fears
as morning arms itself with impotence
to stretch something long anachronous;
thirsting out the chapped dangers,
clinging like heavy fortune-tellery blowflies
in history’s flock-flowered linoleum hospital
The body falls apart like frost-bitten potato stalks
in the vinegar mist of dawn,
swarming with the cockroachy flight-creatures of dementia-thoughts
away over the marginal mold of damp-damaged piles of books,
fingers cold as rain-soaked lake reeds
in the uninterestedly over-rung primary care of the world’s condition,
the oldfolk’s body-sheds overripe primordials;
the stinking primates of eldercare,
unkempt, aging urin-dwellers,
but a knife-throw away from the dissection’s harvest
The repulsions scatterbrainedly spread
in the roaming unease,
the itch’s hard fat-lumps entrenched
around the nostrils of the death-mask,
the bacterial cultures tightly packed
under the claw-curved uncut nails,
the sharp daylight tearing at skin & furrows,
the body mostly a far-gone compost,
the hair a few tangled locks at the nape,
the finger-splay yellowed stalks
out of the blood’s coagulate,
black & pig-slaughter-stinking
in the cold itch of cracked skin-costumes,
medical students gathered
around the exhibited cadaver
like the disciples around the Anointed One
at the Last Supper
---
At dawn the body falters,
falling into pieces as I awaken within it;
a place uncertain, scarcely nameable,
laden with dust of evil speech,
fear staring through its gravel eyes,
while morning girds itself with impotence
to stretch the remnant of what is long anachronous;
to parch the chafing dangers,
clinging like leaden, prophecy-spitting flies
in the linoleum hospital of history
The body breaks as frost-stricken stalks of the potato
in the vinegar mist of dawn;
the cockroach flight of dementia-thoughts
scattering across the mildewed margins of swollen books,
the fingers cold as rain-drowned reeds
within the world’s neglected clinics.
The dwellings of the old are overripe fruits;
the primates of elder-care, rank with stench,
the unkempt urin-dwellers,
a knife’s breadth from the harvest of dissection
Repulsions lie strewn without order,
the itch hardening into fattened lumps
round the nostrils of the death-mask;
the cultures of bacteria pressed firm
beneath the claw-bent, uncut nails.
The day’s sharp light rends flesh and furrows,
the body itself a compost far advanced,
the hair mere tangled remnants at the nape,
the fingers yellowed stalks
arising from the coagulate of blood,
black, rank with the slaughter of swine,
clad in cracked garments of itching skin.
Around the displayed cadaver gather the students of medicine,
as once the disciples gathered
round the Anointed One
at the Last Supper
---
Dawn breaks apart.
The body falls.
Unnamable place,
dust of evil words,
fear in gravel eyes.
Morning girds itself
with impotence.
The anachron stretches,
parched dangers cling
like prophecy-flies
in history’s hospital.
The body breaks,
frost-stricken stalks
in vinegar mist.
Dementia’s creatures flee
across molded margins
of swollen books.
Fingers — cold reeds.
Clinics — uninterested.
Old bodies — overripe.
Primates of stench,
unkempt urin-dwellers,
a knife’s breadth
from the harvest.
Repulsions scattered.
The itch — hardened fat.
Death-mask — clogged nostrils.
Bacteria — pressed beneath claws.
Daylight — tearing flesh.
The body — compost.
The hair — remnants.
The fingers — yellowed stalks
out of coagulated blood.
Black.
Rank with slaughter.
Skin cracked.
The students gather.
The cadaver displayed.
As once the disciples gathered
round the Anointed One
at the Last Supper.
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2025-08-30 at 10:15
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The Last Supper I - III
Dawn falls apartjust as I wake into the body;
an uncertain place, hardly speakable,
dusting with evil words
in the gravel-eyed fears
as morning arms itself with impotence
to stretch something long anachronous;
thirsting out the chapped dangers,
clinging like heavy fortune-tellery blowflies
in history’s flock-flowered linoleum hospital
The body falls apart like frost-bitten potato stalks
in the vinegar mist of dawn,
swarming with the cockroachy flight-creatures of dementia-thoughts
away over the marginal mold of damp-damaged piles of books,
fingers cold as rain-soaked lake reeds
in the uninterestedly over-rung primary care of the world’s condition,
the oldfolk’s body-sheds overripe primordials;
the stinking primates of eldercare,
unkempt, aging urin-dwellers,
but a knife-throw away from the dissection’s harvest
The repulsions scatterbrainedly spread
in the roaming unease,
the itch’s hard fat-lumps entrenched
around the nostrils of the death-mask,
the bacterial cultures tightly packed
under the claw-curved uncut nails,
the sharp daylight tearing at skin & furrows,
the body mostly a far-gone compost,
the hair a few tangled locks at the nape,
the finger-splay yellowed stalks
out of the blood’s coagulate,
black & pig-slaughter-stinking
in the cold itch of cracked skin-costumes,
medical students gathered
around the exhibited cadaver
like the disciples around the Anointed One
at the Last Supper
---
At dawn the body falters,
falling into pieces as I awaken within it;
a place uncertain, scarcely nameable,
laden with dust of evil speech,
fear staring through its gravel eyes,
while morning girds itself with impotence
to stretch the remnant of what is long anachronous;
to parch the chafing dangers,
clinging like leaden, prophecy-spitting flies
in the linoleum hospital of history
The body breaks as frost-stricken stalks of the potato
in the vinegar mist of dawn;
the cockroach flight of dementia-thoughts
scattering across the mildewed margins of swollen books,
the fingers cold as rain-drowned reeds
within the world’s neglected clinics.
The dwellings of the old are overripe fruits;
the primates of elder-care, rank with stench,
the unkempt urin-dwellers,
a knife’s breadth from the harvest of dissection
Repulsions lie strewn without order,
the itch hardening into fattened lumps
round the nostrils of the death-mask;
the cultures of bacteria pressed firm
beneath the claw-bent, uncut nails.
The day’s sharp light rends flesh and furrows,
the body itself a compost far advanced,
the hair mere tangled remnants at the nape,
the fingers yellowed stalks
arising from the coagulate of blood,
black, rank with the slaughter of swine,
clad in cracked garments of itching skin.
Around the displayed cadaver gather the students of medicine,
as once the disciples gathered
round the Anointed One
at the Last Supper
---
Dawn breaks apart.
The body falls.
Unnamable place,
dust of evil words,
fear in gravel eyes.
Morning girds itself
with impotence.
The anachron stretches,
parched dangers cling
like prophecy-flies
in history’s hospital.
The body breaks,
frost-stricken stalks
in vinegar mist.
Dementia’s creatures flee
across molded margins
of swollen books.
Fingers — cold reeds.
Clinics — uninterested.
Old bodies — overripe.
Primates of stench,
unkempt urin-dwellers,
a knife’s breadth
from the harvest.
Repulsions scattered.
The itch — hardened fat.
Death-mask — clogged nostrils.
Bacteria — pressed beneath claws.
Daylight — tearing flesh.
The body — compost.
The hair — remnants.
The fingers — yellowed stalks
out of coagulated blood.
Black.
Rank with slaughter.
Skin cracked.
The students gather.
The cadaver displayed.
As once the disciples gathered
round the Anointed One
at the Last Supper.
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2025-08-30 at 10:15
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
