sick dream #1

 

Now take hold of the same inkling
that I hold, master.
Breathe sweet thoughts of your younger self—
they taste like wine from a box
many, many years before me.

There, there
you stand slim;
a bitter Saxon holding bright
stubble in the palm of your face.
I am your reckoning, I think

so you can sleep now, kid.
The stages of your memory are almost complete.

Shut your drunken lids on our secret clock
and count the ticks like keeping time
keeping time, keeping time

until you know the slow pace of the past.


instruction for the truth

 

If it's some goddamn truth you seek, you need to separate.

Enumerate the works the of the real—the facts,
line them up as if they were some children's toys
made for simple entertainment.
See that the sky is corporeal
and know that all space matter is physical
and can be manipulated by us.

Feel the world as one healthy mess
arranged by sheer coincidence.
And don't trust your dreams.


Dylan Freni is a writer from New Hampshire. His poetry has been published in several online and print publications, including Cadaverine Magazine, Clare Literary Journal, and Poetry Pacific.