Drycicles

The dawning of day, a glowing haze,

The purple ever-murdering blazing Sun

Returning.

Forget thy glory my beauty, we’re in the slaughter dance and the song

Has begun

Hum hallelujah, come growl with me,

Oh humbly, the tune sung so old; like the curses it bites

Like confessions it’s told by thy mouth dry and bitter,

With the teeth

This and thither, with the forked tongue abridged,

Sing for me like a gargoyle

Sing for me like a snake watching close how I dance unabated and still

For my heart’s beating ill

For my carcass is bleeding

For my memory’s fleeting

For my smile’s getting old.

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.

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.

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

There is a cure for everything if you want to forget,

We have the blue pills, the red and the yellow,

The white ones will set your consciousness

On reset

And so we’ll get to say “hello”

More often

Come in our shop of emotional pharmacy,

What does ail you, we’ll fix, we create new beginnings

And we tie the loose ends with shoe-strings and lead

Pinnings

In a dufus expansion of

Bureaucracy.

Are you new to this concept of mental disorder?

Here’s the one-oh-one on how to learn to be mad

To be curious, delusional, catatonic, or

Sad.

Once you’ve come over, there is no return

Just a nice green alley of blossoming flowers

That just refuse to

Burn

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.