Chris Tyrimos Poems
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Marrakech: Or The Tale Of The Monkey In The Jemaa El Fna
The futility of an ego cased in a personality, in flesh.
Ideas came to me in a juvenile milky coffee.
Semi copper coloured bricks in a cheap attention seeking hostel.
Lemonades and liars, frauds and friars, princes and peoples.
Men in the cancerous Indian summer of their lives.
Paying for lust, a well oiled transaction.
My soul spirit affected by the noise, bright lights, a voyeurism.
As viewer, more foreign hypocrite, 'Noel Simsolo' moral administrator.
A bizarre re-affirmation of local suffering, somehow,
confirmed in replica watches and matching tungsten ...
My desires aren't my own
Happiness in a measurement
Is this cloth passed down to me?
The son the father, first passed the post
A secret in a river bed
Gilded engravings between the consciousness
Gaps in the here and the now. An abstraction
Excommunicated ideas of the present