NORDICA

Edvard

Mons Pubis bloodset and sunshot as he
makes lightfall, shuttering out the day

Lamplit, the worm and spirochaete are drawn
to these sheets, an expressive slithering

That eschews varnish. Alone in the dark
he summons vampires, would deny their gifts

Too long a life, an ill-becoming
sobriety, the Goebbels imprimatur

August

Cliffs of black diorite coagulate
in turbid seas, an infarct of the soul

A risen grave, the whispering voices
that hold nothing sacred, favour the obscene

Reflections, on and of, our nearest and
dearest: family histories of disease

Here at Blå Tornet, on the balcony
he dies at least a man of the people

Jean

A flatness resonates across the lake
the colour of nothing, of a bad mood

The birds are flown and now the nights grow long
his forests build a cleansing autumn fire

For the mind’s ear, and for a hearth replete
with tributes and visitations. Look hard

And listen closely: you can almost hear
the long silence out of Järvenpää.

Henrik

ACT IV: This is the house of the Master
windows downstage open onto the void

A huge caldera, dormant for now
beyond the trappings of an old religion

Drained of all meaning, scrawling in the earth
his demons turn their faces to the door

He enters, stands as he must before us
the Hero, homeless in this strange landscape