Reply to Oliver Baez Bendorf’s ‘Dysphoria’

Misguided

The dead can wait,
I’ll follow as many blossoms till
the reaper’s bell stops me.
To bear this flourish,
I must be sleek under afflictions,
under the shadow of threats
numerous they split my will open,
they split my skill open and bury woe.
The dead cannot carry light, or lightning,
or punishment, or threat.
My afflictions cannot carry me,
I cannot carry myself, I carry
something weightless, numb,
inexplicable. I hold the darkness
too close to my complexion,
they greet, kiss, collide rather quickly.
Paranoia is an art, a craft, we have
learnt how to drink our villain
before they think pop out the corners
of our un-cornered rooms.
We have learnt to scrabble “Help me”
into wrong words like “Phelme”,
you say it is “Phlegm”,
so calling for rescue feels like a
lesson or a game.

LARDO