Drycicles

The boat goes on, thrust in the wind, a darkening

Speckle on the seas of sand, a ghastly

Sail traversing the horizon. Its lifeless “now”

That’s always been, the memory of dreams at dawn

With open eyes still gazing at the rising. Take time,

Take love, there’s plenty in the hour-glass, quietly put your hand

In this liquid mirage we call dust, how is that like?

Navigate your fingers

Through the cutting crystals and just inhale the

Perfume

This is the schorching heat that’s waiting for us at the next harbor

The fumes are visible beyond the door of your hand

When we will reach the shores of this sea

Of this land.

G.

Unspoken words have no life beneath the blink-of-an-eye

They wither and pass like the fog on the hills, like the mist

On the Meadows; but if you silently stay, if you cling to the moment

You will hear what`s been spoken in that split of a second.

It`s neverending, truly a giant library of Babel where all are just copies

With the tiniest of mistakes, there are the true “love you’s” to the wrong person

There are the “goodbyes” that were not meant to break. The maelstrom of

Unspoken words

The immensely stratified web whose chords are tiny mistranslated transcripts

Just await to be written. You can’t be wrong when you write, this is the convention

That sometimes needs another edition of the book to be pushed on the table.

Thus I lay all my thoughts as they come, as they go, let it fly – says the voice

Let it flow. And one day, just one day, looking back I will see what was right

Not to write, but to know.

G.

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.

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.

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.

This is a song sung as soft as a lullaby,

A buzzing of angels swarming deep in the deep,

Putting ice on the memory that would wake up asleep,

Whispering eerily a final goodbye.

Though not at the end but a beginning of wonder,

Of laughter and heartbeat and of infinite smile

I decided to stay laying back for a while,

Letting angels dig deep in the conscience asunder.

Let loose, Encephale, deliver, Encephalion,

The stallion of terror and the trotting of hoof,

Serenading myself as I lay low aloof,

Let the angels dig deep as I’ll carry you on.

It fell on the floor, in the shape of a suicidal pigeon,

With its wings widely extended to funnel

A legion of devils at the end of the

tunnel

Of white light, white dreams, white concoctions of milk

Was it coffee “au lait”, or impressions of silk

On my floor?

At the door, knock-a-knocking, there presented itself

One especially shocking

Hypothesis

While in coffee mode, one may access his own private

Nemesis.

I made a gargoyle out of clay

The other day.

Now, you will ask, of all the things man could create

Why would you craft a monster?

I made it small, so it could fit inside my left atrium

I made it tall, so it could block my left ventricle.

I made a gargoyle to silence my heart, and my heart-beats.

So when I feel tempted to look back on my past,

I pump a shot of gargoyle blood.

I pump a little gargoyle poison.

And then the shiver brings me back.

The gaze was crimson dark, beside the firelight,

Small molecules of wine were scattered in the air,

And shards of glass with ruby cork,

And crystal air

Spiced-up the atmosphere of fight

Underneath the floors smelled of

Phenols

From a corner, one could feel

When the blade in vain reached the vein,

How beautiful it was

The flower vase

That gaze