“No human being should be deprived of his metaxu, that is to say of those relative and mixed blessings (home, country, traditions, culture, etc.) which warm and nourish the soul and without which, short of sainthood, a human life is not possible.” – Simone Weil
Let us rest a little. There is much to take in here. After a long process of disintegration, rootedness.
The life instinct gives off sparks
flashover of pure form before it breaks free without recall.
Art is the conductor–
across space and time and life and death.
To break free will take a lifetime.
A lifetime is a form of flammable cladding growing anxious to ingest the oxygen in cavity walls. The blaze burrows through at length
and eats away at it, as a blaze would. Art is the conductor, memory the meeting place.
Tilted at the sharp end of the passage- way were they a voiceless chorus in a vessel being filled
the same memories would turn up the self- same passageway.
Send in all personal inquiries and sit tight, it’s just a matter of investigative procedure.
And wait and wait, for nothing to happen.
Channels open in the membrane of the nerve cell.
Human breath collection apparatus in sensorial space–
I’d like to ask moreover what dead book fiction was used to shroud, to mask everyone’s spirit of discernment so completely–
Is it true there isn’t a valve to shut off the flow of that blue smoke in here
the outlet pressure’s going to exceed 1000 kPa and someone may choke to death
before they iron out eventual bugs and safety flaws and add new self-correcting features, and whatever that piece is
that’s dislodged in me might, and why not, cant round chasing after whom to blame
bordered in again
internalized, for all intents and purposes, like a compression field stretched across a nexus of events.
Time’s up, foster a rapid decision.
Foster, for what it’s worth, an image,
Not the kind one feels confined to as in a stray subway car buzzing round an unlit tunnel darkly packing hours deep inside the hourglass
but a harbor of pursuit, a transplant of the will to believe no less desirous than habitual, habitually a size too large.
Because the first act of war is feeling small.
Crawl-spaced and halved by borders and not so infrequently punished for crossing borders. Flux.
Can you hear me.
It’s just like old times.
I left my self in the old quarters, a boy gliding in and out of the brickwork forever ushering new tenants in, hanging on for dear life, having only been taught hate.
I left to see how far I’d come–
When I looked back I was a navigational hyperlink, collapsed, light at nightfall the final sight to mark my progress,
all initial and ulterior installments of escapement born out of a mere change of direction
not unlike an experience not fully formed yet– conjoined at the root by their own function or, perhaps, lack thereof.
Which brings to mind the story of the dissident poet with bad teeth surviving prison.
‘His teeth survived prison?’
‘Finis vitae sed non amoris,’ he’d say, soon all things perish as approximated
simply to reveal traces in a case of evidence without clues
as from a swift underwater explosion
during which for the subject to be transformed it must initially be stowed at the center of its vulnerability, it, the subject,
and then propelled, albeit later than ever, high into the air, ridiculously majestic–
Into making a farewell appearance
on a narrow ledge surrounded by its counterparts, pain and beauty–
To see the object of universal contemplation in the flashing eye-ball in the sky
reflecting, upside down, the seeing of events, the natural enemy territory the sweet guillotine mends dreams for the unloved in.
Hard to know when to stop, having arrived into the world head first, anonymously, the next place beside the last, so few crossing rafts.
How much further to keep on as to get over. What was got to is made real.
The sound of the city waking up to life
matched to the waking city’s unique sound print reveals a voice unaccounted for.
An outflow of yellowness across every inch of tunnel,
checkpoint for a longstanding hunting season.
The guards cash in each time they let the hunters through
free to continue plaiting fresh data strands unimpeded, ununiform with the near daylight sweep
so that the rest of us here transit breaths pushed on by gusts of idiopathic hypersomnia should access information at a higher speed,
then become it.
Thoughts are foldings-over, after-thoughts.
Not fully independent of to what extent
these almost instant overfolds tend to remain still even as we try to speak, or speak & act out post-truths all at once,
an atrial flutter one beat every .4 seconds generates miles and miles of industrious erosion.
An investigation has been launched, is now ongoing, meaning, despite reports themselves being permanent and darkly growing more collapsed
from the mirage of constant changings, transformations,
we’re configured/ reconfigured in the eyes of statues we can’t escape around the room.
What, at this very juncture, isn’t weighed down by the circuiting breakage?
Insofar as the nervous mind supplies the system’s orchestra, consciousness awaits the big homecoming cheering on
nothing but survival training with a deathwish.
The ungainly way made is visually transposed: homelands melt between the cypresses
with the birth of a neo-century of maiden spirit.
Duplicity is fetishized.
The sediment of doublethink crumbles the alveoli on either side of the recruit’s heart
and compounds a vast continuous presence.
Having come across the slow familiar missing of the soul, his own private micro- machinist, all that commands him does not exist.
The poet sees the lark burning like a candle for the birds who disappeared–
Its song teaches words
to love inside and outside the poem–
I see it too and see him look at it
we both look skyward like conical reflectors.
Through the dark a gap filled with half-light opens up.
Note: The poet sees the lark burning like a candle for the birds who disappeared – in reference to "For the Vanished Birds", by Marin Sorescu
Click & Connect
At night tricks of light sleep at dark angles. The heart feels like waves gently rock you in the middle of the sea.
Misdirected acts of kindness.
Proceed by connecting the following statements:
You don’t really KNOW yourself.
You drink down nature so she spits you back OUT.
You remain deeply UNHAPPY.
Daniel Nemo is a Stockholm-based poet, translator, and photographer. More info at www.danielnemo.com