Drycicles

It was decided that me and my ghost

would hold vigil at the stone on top of the tomb

The sky was watching closely from above, what’s there deep down

Below? I did not know

If that was love or pure madness that had driven me

To assist. But then my ghost insisted

It was hard to resist the preying eyes

The white knuckles, the inviting lips.

She needed a companeer,

Somebody to hold her hand while she’d cry for the loss

Long denied, much too feared.

And the oak trees stood witness and the sky watched above

How the howling and sorrow found a word that was love,

And the nails grasped the earth that was covering the dead

And she cried, and she weeped, while I waited ahead. And the pine trees stood witness

And the moon shed a tear. Thus I dreamt in the shadow

drawing back in my head.

G.

Stare in silence, sweet voice of crystallite

Black crow of deliverance, adorned

Aragonite.

Its wings of velvety arcades

Unending

Its eyes two fiery godly teardrops

Descending

In light.

It is the rock and the stone that fall loudest

It is the rigid embrace that binds deepest

Tonight I’ll find another way to feel

Hide from me that which is weakening

That which is deafening to my music.

G.

Tell me what’s below the surface since

I’m drowning inside out, shout at me louder

Talk to me faster, isn’t that what is life

All about?

I forgot my own name and my body’s desire,

Irrespective of doubt, open eyes closing shut

To contain all the fire that was dripped from

The fire, isn’t that what is life all

About?

G.

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.

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!

There are words inside that will not come out,

Unformed, not yet molded in a coherent thought,

Shapeless, in the emotional magma,

In a blood-bath of neuromediators.

A chemical soul explodes in soliloquy

No rime for the yet untamed chain of guttural

Love declarations

No announcement for the coming music

The harmony

The psychic aphasia that governs unborn

Welcoming home kind phrases

Silently stutter.

So welcome hellish drums of quartz, the Armageddon ashen doom,

Their heirloom of abyssal cries

Who’d shed their tears,

That fled their womb.

The horns of Babylon resound, the devils rise to bring the fate,

The drums of lies arise in hate,

In hatred to revenge the hearts,

Of quartz, of steelish granite darkened,

We are the new messiahs hearkened.

We are the burning ice.

God, promise me land where I can grow follicles,

For a second I seemed to remember the words of somebody

Long gone.

Now it’s done, how would you define isolation,

Is the island alone in a sea of redemption? Or perhaps with its roots down

The dirt, and the land,

Tell me God,

How could the sea

Ever be

A gown of salvation?

God, promise me land in a cried abjuration

And provide me with stones and with rock and with rubble,

I will later use to throw back as hard as I can at

Your double.

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.

Push the nano-knife.

Thrust the blade.

Swivel second life

Roll the clade.

Push the nano-knife

Cut the heart

Roll the mini-strife

Stick the sticky dart.

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