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Dead In Their Tracks


It's 33 below outside

I'm traveling my sleeping bag
inside,
flying low above my mind

It's hard to keep score
of all fatalities

The cat is the captain
of The Big Ship of Dreams,
each night another story,
each day a getting up and go

The year is slowly turning over,
I'm plucked and played

Snow blows off the spruces,
standing erect
in the winds of change,
like the soldiers at Stalingrad

Life expectancy is slowly turning
away,
looking somewhere else

I lie flat to the Januarious plain,
Jehovah stumbling past
on crampons,
demented,
mumbling his disclaimer

The demagogs are left
as they are,
short-circuited
in introverted cities
blind with light

Songs of Love & Hate
leak out
of the farmhouse
at the end of the world

The wolves stop dead
in their tracks,
listening,
frost in their furs




Fri vers (Fri form) av Ingvar Loco Nordin VIP
Läst 15 gånger
Publicerad 2022-01-08 14:09



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