Down In The Moment, Ditch-Driven
Dawn, glaringly made conscious
in the waking to something gone astray,
rash, unruly, feral,
with half-blind migraine eyes
and a flicker of light
as from a crashing Hercules plane
in the Kebnekaise massif;
the smell of jet fuel
in the depopulated cinema of perception;
the filmstrip hallucinatingly stuttering, torn,
screaming from the heavy projector’s breakdown,
the kitchen freezer’s swelling turboprop drone
rising through the bedroom floor,
sighing a hypnotic Terry Riley minimalism
through the atmosphere,
while units of time slowly drift off
like ice floes in an icebreaker’s wake in the Arctic,
and this body has become boreal,
retrograde-total, prime-shell,
when the day won’t quite adhere,
and grainy migraine-notorious migrani
leads astray the one who used to be,
into forgetteries
scraping the bottom of me
along old trade routes beneath the stars,
my hands strangers,
anger crouched down in the moment,
ditch-driven
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2025-10-27 at 12:27
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