Brother [Poem] by Issa Dioume

I Write This For You

My dearest brother, for you I do grieve
As a days’ light was stripped away by night
Wrongfully, bereaved
Leaving you many a hurdle in sight
And your garden-tears briskly mourning eves.

Our Lady Fortune, this whimsical goon
Veiled by a jet-black restless cloaked-sky
Mindlessly, before noon
Coating our dear world’s hair, a darker dye
Has wrongly robbed one of life, much too soon

In what was pilfered lies what is gifted
Where fire has passed, so too must there grow ash
Salt waves, and sand below
When it’s dark and there’s no moon: you thrash
Yet wind still does blow and has just shifted

Therein lies hope in absence of hope-thoughts,
Therein lies sweet life in absence of life
Joy devoid of scope
Toils betwixt you and the now over strife
Beseeching brother to view past blue knots

Which ’round your hands dangle like wrung bangles
Woven with flows of thread binding you to-
– Your blue mind-street angles
Hiding from your sight red-roads where cows moo
Which all good memories do bespangle

Tear that grief away, let it fly today
And beneath souvenirs of him grinning
Like the cold heated-snow, you are brewing
Let it atrophy, and then I will say

My dearest brother, for you I do smile
Knowing you had the rarely chanced upon
Friend to rest on even just for a while
A most indissoluble truth beyond –

…. – even time and space,  now life’s breath is gone

Division Revision- [Poem] by Issa Dioume

Sometimes the water flows
Sometimes the water stills
Stilling my hopes in crypts

Sometimes it rains on my face
Sometimes sun radiates off of it
Burning men like cigarettes

Sometimes I care.
Sometimes I don’t.

Sometimes I share.
Sometimes I won’t.

Blue birds fly unseen in the sky.
Only perceived when poked in the eye.
Manichean Mannequins of wonder.

Wanderers under a flattening roof
Unimpaired by water. It’s Rustproof.

Look yonder to cross the border.
As we are: birds of the same feather

Written by Issa Dioume

Author’s website:

Issa Dioume’s writing

Chronos Devouring His Son [Short-Story] by Issa Dioume

Time seems to slow like running water gone still. Haunted and lost by the ghosts of the minds’ windmill trapped in the slow tic-tac motion of the clocks’ hands that kill. Strangling air out from his throat.

I need a cig thought Barnaclos. Nothing beats the delicious smell of cigs, warm coffee and
cold beer. It’s what gives life its worth!
Black crescent moons drew themselves like bags of filth below his eyes. His irises darted around
the room as he slowly soaked in its white walls. He was sitting, back leaning against the wall,
sheets covering one leg; The other: was bent and utilised as support for his head.

Slowly, he brought a cigarette to his lips and lit its tail end. The cigarettes’ extremity
bloomed red deep like cherry lipstick as he breathed in its sweet poisonous relief. As the smoke escape the aperture of his lips he thought – picturing gun-smoke – he saw himself in it. Much alike gun-smoke, he was the product of a violent act.

The result of the orange mist descending upon his male progenitor one evening. The mist of a voracious, lustful appetite for the sensual pleasures of the meat.

That same night, ‘father’ searched and found satisfaction in ‘mother’. Rape is what they called it. A violation of the fundamental right to one’s body – making temporary use of someone else’s body to satisfy your own bodies’ desires.
Effectively reifying them; dismissing them as: mere flesh, blood, and sex.
Dad had been subjected to physical violations himself during his budding years, at least, according to the authorities. Perhaps, was it to understand? Understand what had happened to him as a child thought Barnaclos…
a product of pain will breed pain.

Fortunately enough, ‘mother’ had opted to keep him. Being from a Catholic family had
taught her every life counts. Even an embryonic one. She, however, despised him bitterly, throughout his eighteen long years. She tried not to, but, was unable to conceal her true feelings. As he grew to resemble her aggressor, she felt nothing but resentment towards him; regarding him with fear.

Why let me live, to hate me?Perhaps, just like father thought Barnaclos it was to
understand.
He felt like an experiment… a therapeutic substance imbued with life.
Slowly, Barnaclos took another drag from the cigarette. A red rose sprung from its ghost
end, paring down the body with its glaring heat. As he exhaled, the smoke danced before his eyes, and, ‘they’ appeared.
Father, Mother, and I, dancing in the smoke.

*pang*

A vaporous infectious shadow cast itself on the white walls, where red roses now bloomed as gun-smoke spread through the air.

🥀

The circle is broken.

Written by Issa Dioume

Author’s blog : Writing, Improving, Coffee

Midnight blues (part 2) Dolphin in a bottle

‘They’ say the bottom of the bottle is always dry, but don’t ‘they’ also say: it’s not about the end but about the journey.

My emotions run dry as I reach the bottom.

So come here! Come join me on MY journey of self-destruction! I promise to keep you entertained all the way down to the last drop of delicious details of my downtrodden life. Watch me swim like a dolphin in a bottle, to the bottom of the sea only to crash and splatter all over the glass.

I know where I am going, swimming to the deepest and lowest part of the self slowly tearing apart the rest throughout my self-destructive thoughts and attitude.

Life to me has always felt like being subjected to something. When I was born, I was subjected to life. My parents gave me life but by soon so also offered me the sweetest gift of death. I would have never known this gift were it not for the life they gave me. What a selfish thing to do! Give life! You killed me mom, you killed me dad. And now as a grown man I sit on stool at a bar as the stool grows roots and sucks away my will.

You call me an embarrassment. Ha! It is you who is the embarrassment, so distraught with the idea that this ‘thing’ was contrived from the mixing of your DNAs. I craved attention and love but got nothing but things. I do not want things. Things may be worth something to my image by things are worthless to the soul and my soul is the poorest there is. Dragging itself from one day to another only by the assistance of alcohol. All holding by a thread. Take that a way and all link disappears.

Enjoy the spectacle, enjoy seeing this absurd man rowing a boat in brandy up a mountain and wanting to touch the sky. Absurd it may be but to me it means something. It means not giving up. Not letting life win. It’s my beautiful vengeance. Giving a spectacle for all to admire. Bearing my all, bare naked soul out in the open and vulnerable. Not plagued by the same disease as the fakers and bluffers I cross everyday.

The other day I went up to a crossroad trying to sell my soul for what it may be worth. I wanted the bliss of ignorance in exchange. However as I presented my soul he laughed at me pitifully knowing full well he would see me seen anyway.

Numbing and drowning the screams of my consciousness is the best solution now. Liquor is my love. Liquor is my self. An Intoxicated mess.

A dolphin in a bottle swimming downstream to the bottom of the sweet sweet liquor. Lost in a daze, veils of sorrow grief and pain. Waiting for the end to come at the twilight of my high.

Author’s website:

Writing, Improving, Coffee

Ruby the cat

(Writing by Issa Dioume & Picture: by artist – V)
Sometimes, before shutting my eyelids and drifting into deep slumber, I imagine a miniscule-looking black cat standing firmly atop clouds, around midnight; bathing in the moonlight. Like a piece of charcoal in the night’s sky; only made visible by the grey clouds beneath its paws and a tail-shaped lantern. How he got there is a mystery. When I think of what its name must be, all that comes to mind is Ruby. Ruby the cat: a cat sailing the clouds of the sky at night when the sun is no longer bright and the moon has come shine in its place. Darkness suffused through and through like a dark mantle with tiny beads of light. The clouds leave trails in the sky as they drift by like exhaust pipes of city cars or factories.

Ruby’s coat matches the night, but it’s blue eyes match the day. Sometimes I wonder: what is Ruby doing up there? all alone. Perhaps lost and unable to find the way back to the moon. Calling out every night for it to come down and bring him back to his world of magical cats. Or, perhaps, Ruby is just a cat and sleeps eighteen hours a day waking only at night to chase around cloudmice or starbirds. That sounds like it would be fun.

Sometimes, I am Ruby and just let myself drift along looking down at the kaleidoscopic landscape, sharpening my claws on some cloud rock. Yawning as I feel the zephyr blowing in the welkin. Walking on the edge of the veils coating the heavens, opening my mighty jaw. A powerful roar streaming out, echoing throughout the stratosphere.

As I stand ,proud as a lion, watching the cloudmice run away in fear. I feel like the king of the ether jungle.

Then sleep ineluctably clocks in and I sail away into the river of dreams.

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