The Paprika Light
The breaking point is leaf-thin,
fragile;
the cat in a large pot of soil
by the window,
scanning the surroundings
from within the paprika dusk
The body uncertain: an old machine
in an existence that is a boarded-up garage;
dusty, overgrown,
scented with oil & bearing grease
Yes, the physiognomy is an unsafe hideout,
a wavering equilibrium,
a wager of what & how
on uncertain metabolism and defective documents
Am I cool enough
to start a cool center?
The paprika lamp switches on;
a blow to the face,
a strike at eye level
The rosary of teeth
dresses itself in gold & composite
The day is fragile
like the brittle sound of a thin-spun sleigh bell
at minus 23° Celsius
When I chatter my teeth
straight into the paprika light
I feel
like an oriental bird
with variegated plumage,
though I am an old human body
lying on its back
with the morning in its arms
and the back beneath me
like a cradle
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2025-12-12 at 11:22
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