Drycicles

It’s been a while, there are wrinkles now around

Your eyes, your nose, your beautiful smile. And on the bench the

Remains of the day, will we face that? You asked. We may yet, I said

We still may. Now there’s time and there’s distance, and a rhythm for sound

And the shackles that bound

Man to beast, earth and sky, heart

And arrow.

It’s been a while now, there are boxes in memories and there’s dust

In the chambers’ deposit, full of anger and lust. It’s been all eroded

Corroded

By the kindness of angels, those devils that pass.

And on the lake the remains of the day whenst I prayed

Whenst I layed in my boat. Afloat, or just the dreaming?

Will we face that? You asked. We may yet, I said once,

We still may.

G.

Time bled to the point of exsanguination, the tiny

Ruby

Droplets

Would leave no choice, no offer for imagination. It was obvious,

It was there. It was pulsating nightmarishly behind my temples

And dilated pupils. Everywhere I’d look, I’d read that news, that seed

Of damnation. No, there’s nothing left, no offer for imagination

Not even doubt, the welcomed companeer, that mariner that helped me

Steer.

Time bled. Time bled. So take me down instead, won’t you? No, you can’t, I know

But damn you for not even considering it, not even suggesting it as a likely

Trade. When all will

Fade I’ll

Say farewell.

Their hearts were beating fast, in a pacing arrhythmia, here is

The dream, the panoramic delusion, now Behold!

The initial

Confusion

Is gone.

Oh my so-ever invincible Lord, what in Heaven’s name

Have they

Done?

He has branded his soul with this sweet under-longing, never there, never

Here, while the mind kept on turning

Spinning out of control.

I will give myself up to the memories’ chasm, shut the door, shut the light

Say hello to phantasms of yore, now for Heaven’s sake one cannot but

Adore

This delusion. Under-longing effusions filled his nostrils

It’s the flavor of life. What a life. What a lie. What a cruel way

To die.

Aligned, ten thousand tin soldiers, no move, no

Sound, no sigh,

No quarrel. Tonight the invasion’s begun!

Let us pray:

Prepare the flowers of the field, redden the poppies,

Train your women to cry widow, train your men to lay

Bare

In front of our heroes.

No words can describe what the human stain

Colors

Two more hours we lay

On this field day. Tomorrow we’ll yell

Victorious

No more poppy fields, how beautiful is the chanting cascade of the

Widows.

The willows.

Her eye-lashes were black anemones, heavy dark

Persephone watching at the gates

A spark shot through the glass, then another

As my consciousness faded or

Rather

Dissipated in sleep.

My hair was made of black anemones, carnivorous

Medusae, turning thought into stone, sky and air

Sun that shone.

It’s not fair, a megalomaniac picture of yet one more

Discharge of chemicals; at the shore,

A flock of walruses screamed their agonal

Mating

Cries.

Its shape, a cube. The vibe of yesterday still keeps on

Fumigating

It’s neverending foolish fugue.

The flames of remembering

Still burn through the faltering

Flakes

Mistakes, there were so many, then a few

Dear stupid God, why did you keep it

Secret

Now if I only knew what lies at the corners

Of a memory

It’s scary, isn’t it? I wouldn’t know, my thoughts and feelings

are kindly hidden, frozen under

And even this intrusive banter,

Goes with snow.

Look at me, God damn you! Turn your eyes from the floor,

I’ve arrived at your door, can’t you at least

Pretend

I am here?

Look at me, I say! It’s been so many years I’ve been

Navigating

These oceans with the albatross down my neck. And despair, oh,

Torment and despair

There was little to do but was so much to bear. And now, chuckle,

I’ve arrived as was promised by that goddamning oracle that bound

Soul

To my soul. Goddamn fish in a bowl, yes I was!… so indulge me this ranting

That takes place on a field laying gray, me, the wind, and these pictures

In Sargassian tones,

These nonsensical pictures. Time flew by, on a Sunday.

It was Hell’s Day. That’s it.

First you need to set a trap that’s fit for a clown,

Such as a crying baby, or a morose Mademoiselle

Lay it down slowly, careful not to tickle the bait

Then you wait for the prey

You need to acknowledge that clowns are dangerous predators

They might crack up a joke, or, even more dangerous

Blow water balloons, only to make you feel Good

But you shouldn’t give up, carefully regularly check on

The trap; The highest priced are the ones with the luminous red

Noses. That strike a pose, have goofy eyes so sad

Carrying their water-roses with them

Shouting Ha! Ha! Ha!. ha! HA! Breathe!

Last night the snow started singing,

Initially it was just noise and riot, riot and rage

Rage and fury

That whipped through this whirlwind,

The lunar chariot driven by

Winged horses of wind at my window

Luring, securing what’s now a mighty

Fortress of Snow

The polar armadas marched below, in an

Invasion of privacy of the earth, frozen solid

Sullen it was just before cracking fragile

Crusts of ice; it was nice to behold

Even nicer to listen to their song, yielding

Words never uttered, forgotten,

Untold.

Mr. Black goes to jail

Smiling enigmatically at his judge and jurors

At the policemen

At the door-keeper

He still looks impeccable, his suit

The colour of void, of

Midnight

Starting right now, Mr. Black is a

Convicted

Felon

Strip him down, inmates

Take that shiny painting off, and wipe

That

Smirk

Off

His

Face