The Moment D (the metabolites speak) (II)
“Dig where you stand”
they said
in the seventies
I stand to my chin
in old age,
shaking on the spade
Pain here, there
The pill organizer swells
with the daily ration.
Sundays return
to refill the week
in a tightened circadian cadence,
the cycle now
only days long
Many comrades
have already died
their well-earned deaths
Among the few still clinging,
S-Ĺ speaks
of endless fatigue
and a heart that will not rest
Then, almost casually:
Old CT –
the spindle-shaped Iron-Curtainist –
is still himself,
only now aching
in his Soviet body
UP, whom I last saw
in the influenza queue
among the grey people of Shitville,
once the measure
of my youthful beauty,
had tightened, thinned,
her eyes sunk inward
into a death mask
worthy of the name
SK, eldest of the Alienated,
eighty in December,
appears on Facebook
most like himself of us all –
yet somehow reduced,
distilled
to the dense extract
of his compulsive intellect
Thicker.
Slower.
More viscous.
Still himself
A nihilist of surprises
to the very tip
of his bohemian nose
His YouTube links
to the spearhead sciences
of philosophy
offer a comfort without relief
at the end of the slope,
in Hades’ oily forecourts
And on P1 I hear
that with the help of AI
the moment of death
will soon be determined
with greater precision
My mouth dries
The mouse arm protests
And the metabolites
begin to speak
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-03-04 at 12:48
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
