Drycicles

I have found a name for my chronic dysphoria

That prevents me from engaging in creative delusion

At my trial, if I’m culpable of any

Crime

Just cite me, I suffer from a thymic

Contusion.

I have hit my two ganglia with the rock and the

Stone

When I’m gone, they will say

I was athymhormic

The dorm in the dormic

In the Dormicum

Day.

If you search for my diagnosis

Please observe my prognosis

Is poor

And this disorder marked by a lack

of Motivation

Will perhaps prove to be a Divine

Intervention.

A time, of thyme, of dysthymic

Harmonia

Blessed by

Athymhormia.

Dance with me Garam

Masala

Opium poppies and

Sofran

Bake my hopes and Wishes

Slowly

In this year that’s just

Begun.

Breathe with me Garam

Masala

Spicy cumin ginger eyes

As time flies we’ll wish

A memory

Tikka takka shards of

Savory

Tashuan recall of spice.

Hocus-pocus cayenne pepper

And black powder dark and sweet

On the spicy road we’ll meet

Dancing the corrals of gold.

Get me drunk, Garam Masala

And I’ll sing your tale of

Old.

Come wind, caress the halls

Inside the tower

Of our

Souls

Come rain, wash the days

Of this last month

In this last year

We have lain before you.

We’ll whistle the tune together

We’ll stare in wonder below

At the freshly adorned coat of snow

Sky whenever.

I still don’t know how to build

a Carillion

And have counted for ages

the Millions

of fibres of silk

In a tune yet unsung, for tomorrow

I will touch the clavier

Of my being

From this tower in Utrecht

I am blessed that we got to

Seeing

the World

Together,

Dad.

A smile is a

Mine of adamantine

Optimism, of

Hope unchained even in

the Darkest

Place, of

Chance, even in

the Deepest

Space

on your body.

So here we are, at last, my dear,

Two steps from whispering what’s bound

To be the acronym of fear

I dare not breathe, you make no sound.

And staring at each-other calmly

Perhaps we’ll find a way to shout

Whose fault it was, but most and mainly,

What was the acronym of doubt.

We loved to play with words and pictures

Imaginary and contort,

We burned

Our acronyms and scriptures,

We burned the ephigies of old

We scarred the land and darkest sky

To build this ashen castle slowly,

And whisper at its door: “good-bye”

I want to sink my teeth in the souls of the dead

That still breathe in your conscience, prisoner,

You don’t know, but they dictated

What you are

What you did,

Where you were.

Who did you have to kill to get here?

Who did you have to rob to get you to that

“Anywhere”

That you hoped for, that “anywhere” you left

For.

Please help me sink my teeth in your memories

Devour

Your dreams

And incorporate flesh in my flesh, and emotion

Masticating your life as you throw it away

In this prison of fire

Could I borrow desire from you?

Or would you give it freely, so I can reach my “anywhere”

Too.

Let’s exchange places, for a second, will you bite at my breast

While it

Lasts?

There is a vacuum of myth, although the canvas of air is full of

Aroma,

There is a presence of pain, that forbids it to be

That prevents it from happening, dot and mark, mark and coma,

In between the parentheses and remained scrutiny.

This cinnamon heart will someday burst with flavour,

Like the dying tree it came from when I found it

And savoured it, Aulair.

It’s still there, chanting and flying, and dancing and feeling,

The song of the dying and the death of the singing.

A smell of corrosion poisoned the beat

Aulair lit a candle at the head of the comatose

Dozing his final sleep

Vagabond.

Still asleep,

I was

Keeping

My dreams

From eloping

It’s still

What it seems

Thoughts eroding

The pillow hurts,

The head is bursting with pain

Again

And again

How many headaches, how many

Thoughts?

It’s still there, pulsating with the joy

of the Tormentor

Defenceless,  with the aura of another

Migraine.

Be welcome, my familiar pain

I will still sleep, don’t deny me,

This slumber,

Better deep

than Under.

She left the other day, I stood

Silent

In front of the paper I

Would have written something

But for a moment

Blinded

I realized she had left me unknowingly

My inspiration, somewhere hidden between

A million flakes

of Snow

Now, as I scribble what I know

I realize that

As times fly

So does the memory, the will to express

What I would otherwise forget to

At the dawn of day.

She left, my inspiration, the other night

We hadn’t had a fight in ages, I would put down and she’d agree

That what was written was not wilfully

Mine, or hers.

And here is now my limping phrase, serenading the breeze

Thankful that I could be there in that one second

To say good-bye to the train, or was it a

Plane that left?

No, it was a dying bird, my inspiration, singing like

the Nightingale; for a pale memory of misty mornings

And hot afternoons and rainy autumn

And the winters of storm, with tears of devils forgiven by God

After the Judgement.

When the dust settles down on the conflict ,

You will get what is offered,

Would have bought

What is suffered

By God.

The true blessing of life is to live as you will,

Staying still, for a second,

At the wonder of stars, souls of ash, and of carbon delight,

Out of fear came the fight,

Then the peace

Then the bliss.

I am home.