Brahma's Sarabands
I exist in a shimmering span of time
with six semi-transparent sides
and seventeen skinny minutes
Not all the dead are surrendered;
the windows fog up,
the mainland lies in ruins,
almost all acquaintances have been dismissed,
the roads twist through the past,
the cardiovascular engine stutters, hearing snuffles,
accidents work methodically,
ambushes stand silent
in Norrland’s scent of boiled coffee
and verdigrised church-roof copper;
empty buildings howl at the edges of distances
The day turns inward, roars & crashes
Deep in the river mouths Brahma’s sarabands rumble;
uninterested truths walk naked on the beaches
In the first now absence shines sufficiently
Mrs Dementia & Mr Senility simmer
in the dishwater
over all of Central Sweden
In Singi’s drying room the vitreous bodies hang to dry
by their optic nerves,
ready to be dipped in chocolate sauce & rum
Half-naked I fly in a sudden Chagall,
upside-down in solemnity;
releasing a series of stinking blasts
so the excrement pushes out
and fills the underwear
like fully-packed bargain bags from Willys,
while the piss pours out into the morning-red canvas light
and roaring vomit rises upstream through the esophagus;
laughter bubbling over the tooth-coatings,
gurgling like a spring brook in caries
until the lust-stroke screams so the Baltic Sea ripples
and the loins tremble
in the geyser-fountain of semen,
standing in the sunlight like the archangel himself,
wet-faced, gleaming-skinned,
and heaven’s hosts strike up
Like A Rolling Stone
on Road 52 out toward Stigtomta
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
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Written on 2025-11-01 at 12:04
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