Wednesday Trilogy at the Point of Life
I
the excavator
The heart
gives the impression
of an excavator
inside a gravel pit in the forest,
muffled by sand embankments
& pinewood
I register the life-maintainer
that never lets up,
as if from the distracted flutter
of a sand martin
by its burrow in the earth
– no more than that
…and just that inattentive
is the living creature
– blood- & oxygen-intoxicated –
to the grace (or curse)
that unfolds the worldly impulses
before her,
and carries her toward the stars
or the knife's lamenting blade
II
in God’s image
The ribcage
beneath the chin
is a stretched storage shed
somewhere on the property
The feet
are a pair of distant relatives
at the foot-end of creation
The tarpaulin of skin
has hurriedly been pulled across
the hissing & pulsating countervalue
of the organs,
deemed a necessary detour
toward the image of God;
stench & impurity
– and mortuaries crackling
with Caucasian brooding
III
Doré
Night arrives with soldering irons
and private revelations
The harness is greased and polished;
the fragrance rises pleasing unto God
through the cloud formations
and the horses fly
in accordance with Revelation
Doré does exactly what he must
for the myth, for the fairy tale,
for the pope
and his bleeding little altar boys,
defenseless in the dusk
of certainty and faith
by the Holy See
– yet always strikes back
Hollywood-style
with righteous vengeance in the wood engraving,
longed for both ways
through the haze of incense,
and everyone is satisfied down their misery,
as long as it does not feel lonely
de profundis
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-05-06 at 10:36
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