The Moment D (the metabolites speak)
“Dig where you stand”
was the slogan
in the 1970s
I stand up to my chin
in old age
and tremble on the spade;
pain here, there…
the pill organizer brimming with the daily dose,
the Sundays of weekly refilling returning,
it seems,
in a condensed circadian cadence
at a frequency
of only a couple of days
Many comrades
have “already” died a well-deserved death,
but among the few still clinging on
like rhesus monkeys
S-Å speaks of eternal fatigue
and a restless heart,
only to let slip, when asked,
that the old spindle-shaped Iron-Curtainist CT
is much the same as ever,
though he now aches in his Soviet body
UP, whom I last saw
in the annual influenza vaccination’s tangle
of grey folk in Shitville a couple of years ago,
and who had once matched my youthful ideal of beauty,
had had her face tightened and emaciated
and the eyes sunk
into a death mask as good as any
SK, the eldest of the Alienated,
eighty in December,
appears, via Facebook, most like himself
of the former ones,
though somehow reduced
to the essence of his compulsively intellectual mannerisms;
in a higher density, thicker, more viscous,
yet all the while exactly as he is,
as one might expect,
as one might feel safe with;
a surprise nihilist all the way out to his bohemian nose,
his attached YouTube links
to the spearhead sciences of philosophy
constituting a kind of comfort without relief at the end of the slope,
in Hades’s dingy antechambers, polluted with spilled oil
– and on P1 I hear
that with the support of AI
one will be able to determine the moment of death
with greater precision!
My mouth goes dry,
the mouse arm raises its painful voice
and the metabolites speak
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
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Written on 2026-03-04 at 12:10
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