Working Material (II)
You were made into material.
You – once kin, once foes,
once the neutral chewing of flesh and waste
You were broken down into sources,
into patterns,
into groaning books of the age
Thus your vanished lives
were granted a crumb of sense
Now you lie pressed and mute
like leaves in Linnaeus’ tombs of green,
numbered in my ledgers of memory,
where even the smallest fool is pinned,
even the palest soul weighed and mocked,
fed into the poison-script of the present age
You are the first grotesques.
The seed of every tale
Your dull faces are summoned at will,
piled with the hollow kin of my blood,
good for nothing but word-rituals,
for sharpened chants and crafted scorn
You were dragged into judgment,
beaten – not to bleed in court,
but enough to mark forever
You became fuel
for the roaring nightmares of now,
for chronicles of disgrace,
small devils dressed as power,
singular failures of towns of filth,
of schools, wards, crews, beds of sickness
You are the types
Slaughtered line by line.
Page by page.
Skin to spine.
At last spoken.
At last used
Know your doubles.
Rise in your pride
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-02-09 at 21:27
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