Shitville
My body
is a foreign country,
forced upon me, unnegotiated,
with strict immigration laws,
slowly developed
from the very first microbe
all the way to a cup of coffee by the computer
and a sneezing fit
I wake in a foreign country;
an unaccompanied sack of entrails
in an unpleasantly familiar foreign town:
Shitville
– where death plays in every palm
and society is a carpet-beating rack
in the housing complex
and a habitual trip down to the laundry room
plus an unchanged number of unchanged phrases
for getting past the neighbors
without stirring up bad blood
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-05-09 at 12:41
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