DM;DO Song
by johannespunkt
I only publish poems after disasters, now.
~
DM;DO Song
by Johannes Punkt
Vi byggs inifrån som träd, och det växer ut broar mellan oss som inte är av död materia och dött tvång. Från oss går det levande ut. I er går det livlösa in.
– Karin Boye, Kallocain
Strip, pluck those lashes out like daddy’s long
legs. Bow your head like you’ve done something wrong
and let your ostrich feather boa go
and take your tar-black evening gloves off. Throw
your widow’s veil and hat away and cut
your fishnets up, your lace, your straps, your bow.
Let fall what’s left of that old dress real slow.
Step out of those Doc Martens. Don’t rebut —
don’t walk, don’t run, don’t march.
Don’t look me in the eyes.
Don’t mourn, don’t organize.
Your body tells no lies.
Your body tells no lies.
Don’t mourn, don’t organize.
Salt water waits its turn and then a church
roof crashes down on land. The gargoyles perch
on solid oil. Pick up the blackest stone
that you can find on Lesbos’ shore on loan
from King Poseidon: vote with it as hard
as you can throw it, when the tide is low.
Now break, collapse, like waves, alone. You owe
nobody anything. Let down your guard.
Don’t pray. Don’t supplicate.
Just wait and see who dies.
Don’t mourn, don’t organize.
Your body tells no lies.
Your body tells no lies.
Don’t mourn, don’t organize.
Light. Stained light moves like maggots on a fresh
corpse, hesitant. Don’t flinch, don’t twitch, don’t thresh
about. Don’t budge an inch. You’re dead so don’t
get up. Don’t whimper when you’re kicked. It won’t
get better. Don’t you think it would behoove
you to lay still? Don’t rise, I know you’re prone
to giving in to those who have a bone
to have picked clean with you: the maggots move
like light on placid ponds.
Don’t swat away the flies.
Don’t mourn, don’t organize.
Your body tells no lies.
Your body tells no lies.
Don’t mourn, don’t organize.
Tide pulls at you and your reflection blinks
six times. The woman in the mirror thinks
that you’re the copy, staring through the moat
the tide digs round your body as you bloat.
You think the moon’s tug means the sea draws breath.
The sea does no such thing. You see them row
to shore the boats that overflow, that stow
ten thousand migrants, in the shibboleth.
They’re refugees. Don’t think.
Don’t fear the tide. Don’t rise.
Don’t mourn, don’t organize.
Your body tells no lies.
Your body tells no lies.
Don’t mourn, don’t organize.
All funerals should be immediate.
Yours was. The gulls made sure your needs were met
then turned to vultures. If you find me: roll
my useless wooden body to a hole
and push me in and say what’s on your mind.
No strings attached. Don’t be polite. Let’s go,
let go. Don’t claim you’re sad, Pinocchio,
lest something sprout. Don’t say shit to be kind.
Don’t notify my next
of kin. Don’t eulogize.
Don’t mourn, don’t organize.
Your body tells you lies.
Your body tells you lies,
don’t tell me otherwise.
No farewells, no goodbyes.
Don’t mourn, don’t organize.
Grief, love. A gunclap in your ribcage: grief,
grief, grief will turn you to a liar, thief,
and murderer. Your deadbeat heartbeat: strobe;
your heart: arachnid and arachnophobe;
your body: like a tongue, but you – stay still.
Don’t understand it. How can those you know
be gone when you recall –? Grief waits below,
between your shadows on the stone, to kill,
revive, repeat. And if
you hear my song, don’t rise.
Don’t rise, don’t rise, don’t rise.
Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost 