spikenard

.

working on my thesis,

feeling a whet hatred

of all authority,

in the discipline

of love and wisdom

.

the crisply sprung keyboard

beneath my finger tips

invites a more political

caress to fuck it

.

a familiar

bitter brewed

slowly milked

slowly sweetened

.

till the

chill mould

is bleach burned

and chalk grit dregs

drained

.

the fresh rotted

a pickle preserves

the memory entropic

carbon ash

.

this grief is the mark of death upon me

for now I carry a silence with me

Last night I dreamt you scarred yourself so deeply that you wanted to die so that you could be reborn. An ability special to your family. From that giant old house you retrieved a revolver with a metre long octagonal barrel and chain hoist trigger action. You held the barrel against your head and I helped you to operate the mechanism. Winding deadly springs, slowly rotating the cylinder, each long second filled with a sudden violent promise. Womb. Thump. The bullet flew up the long barrel and exited with a noise like a palm striking the opening of a plastic pipe. It went through your beautiful face, your beautiful mind. That bullet hit your capoeira dancing soul. You died and were reborn. But you no longer knew me your friend.

Imagine being the tongue trapped behind teeth that will not open. Sharp lower incisors closed to the roof of the mouth. You cut yourself even just trying to find a way out. You can’t form enough of a point to lever a gap. Your soft subtlety that prays so well cannot overcome even a rotten tooth. So you say nothing. You pray nothing. Only wish the teeth to open. I must speak to you again my friend.