Dusty Morning

May. Nothing's coming in, can't seem to write anything. This is the fourth post of the month, pathetic. Yawn.

Dusty Mornings

It’s on morning like these when
the toxic air-con makes mucus snowflakes
and the sun having just whet
his blades last night
maiming the flesh between the air and my eyes
groaning repetitions of the twenty-sixth alphabet
with supper’s yellow cookie crumbs
(to my surprise)
finding their way between the gaps
to coalesce with flesh
to block out the bright,
in laughter and mocking.
Bough under bough, meat under cloth,
pins and needles.
Ouch.
Last night’s dream was of
Nah, can’t rememboooaaaaarrrggh.
Wet cookie crumbs.

Well, this is the day that You have made.

Thanks for the five senses.

Thanks for letting me wake up before the alaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrgghhm

Slimier cookie crumbs

clock.

~tc©

The Poet is Mightier than the Swordsman

The Poet is Mightier than the Swordsman

If my eyes could draw a painting now
it’d be grey, black or white
like the passing clouds of a teary sky
where the silver lining is fiction
where dreams would vanish when one thought twice.

If my ears could note a melody
of beauty sweet and bitter,
my heart could then take a rest
and my staff would cease to quaver
I wouldn’t need one with this harmony.

If my hands could put into shape surreal
and marshal the monochrome endeavours above
then my threads of gloom and thoughts of love
would vie to vie with the hardest steel,
soften the iciest heart
find the lost
at the cost
of less than a meagre meal
and a single copper coin, perhaps.

~tc©

Mêlée

Its been long enough. A fortnight of network retardation could prove the same mentally as well. Well at least the papers are all over now. I'll save the colloquy for next time, this one here below is quite long. I initially wanted to italicise a few lines but I figured I'd let you do the figuring. It may seem a little alarming but I assure you I don't harbour thoughts about betraying my faith. I can't. That's the beauty of it. Heh. Enjoy.

Mêlée

Peace to you, my brethren!

Hallelujah for divine languor.

Dear child, pl-

Hallelujah for anticipation! Hallelujah for the anticlimax! How ‘bout the antichrist!? Heh, agreed. Hallelujah.

Your bridge, Your grace, Your strategy
Is this how we choose today?
Is this compassion, or love when we tear in vain
for the ones that fade away
Are our words cacophony
fallen on apathy
since You knew what we were going to say?
Have we no say?
Now the wounds of this gap scream of how
they’ll never close away.
The gap You promised to seal.
The scars You promised to heal.
But all is left, is the rain of the unremitting
and our wishing it could all dry up
Just like the sporadic decks of cards that You deal
everyday
spades, clovers and diamonds forlorn
Melodies, hymns and symphonies are noise
Every prayer, every voice
right before every slumber, every meal
Have they become a routine even to You?

Where were you when I was drenched in blood?
Then and now, spears and guns
scorning My tears and My choice, My fate
worse than that of the prodigal son
Yet I haven’t closed a single door
since your walk on the aisle begun
This is My profession, He played that suit of hearts on Me
There was no dice but sacrifice
This is My confession, I need you not but I still love thee.
Child, you won’t live long if touch dictates!
Nor sight, nor sound nor smell
for beauty lives where spirits compel
where ours shall weave and interlock...
I pray.

Light and dark
Light and
Light

It’s been there all along
Oh Agnus dei
break these chains
of alexithymia
of cursory
of vice and felony

Break me and make me again.

~tc©

Pillow

I'm surprised I managed to find solace to inscribe my thoughts despite the informational cataclysm occurring up there right now. Hm. Good, indication of sanity retention.

This one below...I think I'll write a tune for it once the hustle-and-bustle is over, won't do it justice if I don't; at least thats what I think.

Pillow

She’s been beside me, always there
since vacant memory
I’ve held her close from spring’s echoes
to winter’s evergreen
Night by night she’s been the drawer
of the prettiest, darkest dreams
and at dawn, no matter from which I left,
she’d never leave me.
She’d never leave me.
She’s braved the rains of my brown white clouds
and she’s never said a thing
Migraines, lullabies and folded hands,
now she’s old enough for me.
I wish she wasn’t white and soft
or something close to none
because I’ve dreamed that dream so many times
that she would be someone.

I’d scream and sweat and dry my eyes with
my head upon her heart
wishing she’d say, My days have gone,
but our days have just begun.

~tc©