That Anything At All
Grållan is sitting on eggs
out in the henhouse
The chicks that are to hatch
will soon be standing there,
risen out of nothing, out of a fold in time,
just like us,
who have risen defenseless,
registered in DNA-ish,
clueless in our patterns,
in the exemplary patterning of life functions,
in our timespaces,
in our formatted body huts,
our inner organs; hissing, gurgling,
masked in skin suits, in appearance:
high-physiological complexities,
emergences
in our wiring diagrams,
our preferences, predilections,
our unconscious habit patterns,
out onto our rescue planks,
gradually sunk
into the leachate of worldviews,
bewitched
by the whispers of storm drains
I saw my parents, each in turn,
dim inside their bodies, disconnect,
be fire-buried,
rise in the smoke
that hung above the crematorium spaceport,
and drift away,
while well-groomed thoughts
of their oven-bodies
crawled off like aliens across the threshold,
out into the night, smoke-damaged;
life rustling,
impersonal as formal wear
in a dimensional portal
Now the rain crawls hard across the house;
stands cruelly in the garden –
implacable, autumn-cold –
wrestles time;
frightens its way deep into the dream
that carries me across these desolate lands
August pours the unforeseen
into the body;
sketches out a pain I had forgotten;
counts years,
over and over again
That anything at all ”exists”
is a fairy tale
The poems in my head
take body
in the bazaar in Shiraz,
and lay claim to the unceasing light
deep inside the driving rain,
where the faces remember themselves
and forget all intentions
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-08-08 at 13:11
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