Angel Dust Over Shitville
Now, you get in there,
with the legal papers dancing
like a hand fan in a lady's clasp,
Marco Wolf Leere Heimburger;
you just swing that door ajar;
beautiful slender Wdase Ksete next door
peering through the crack in her door
with her young son Joel behind,
wondering whatever happened
to the Loco man,
and whatever is going on now,
startled at your fancy,
your mysterious, dark appearance,
your sense of might & magic,
those burning eyes
above your half-hidden smile
playing with such power;
Wdase slamming the door shut,
calling up her friends,
talking in a hushed voice
to her Eritrean community,
scared of that sudden moment,
that tear in time
– but you just get on in there, Marco,
into that well-equipped tomb,
through that narrow hallway,
that passageway,
that wormhole through the universe,
into that living room, full of death,
the walls dressed up in crowded bookshelves
from floor to ceiling;
that motto
”ONLY THE WORST IS BAD ENOUGH”
stuck up there in senseless obstinacy;
but you just storm through that space,
those towering bookshelves looming like threats
that would kill you in an instant
should they topple
Yes, storm through for now,
past that multitude, that forever of literature
that holds on to the walls like rock climbers
up the Snipen rock face in Niemisel,
adrenaline gushing;
storm through into the bedroom,
where the Wolf
had written his pieces;
had composed his art of sound,
and climb up above the bed,
at its head,
and reach into the upper shelves,
and pull out the ring binders
with the letters from Stockhausen;
flip through, make sure,
letter by letter, year by year,
all written in the Master's
beautiful hand,
and stick them in your bag
like a master thief
provided with the legal intent
of an heir;
letters, a will,
and the Stockhausen spirit
in a bag;
the sun sinking,
the magic falling like angel dust
over Shitville
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-06-21 at 19:47
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