You read me a story about a strange clockwork bird, and I flew away to dance with aurora borealis.
We are sheltering in our dreams, spending time with animals and gentle folk who move gracefully.
The dream is punctuated by broken glass and the threat of knives, but I really can’t go there right now.
She is frightened by his humour and clearly more at home when the date is reviewed on national tv.
Even now, you are searching for meaning, and I can remember how dark it was outside that train.
Once upon a silken sleeping bag
I flew a merry while
across the seven continents
and wondered for a smile.
When all the sheep were snoring
and dingoes were the brass
I put a trumpet to my lips
and blew it through the grass.
The crocodiles were friendly
and the badgers very kind
the cockroaches misunderstood
and kidded me they rhymed.
We danced around a story
and sang a cup of cheer
A band of bees played harmonies
that lasted for a year.
And when my time was over
and light was in the sky
my sleeping bag woke up again
and bid the dream goodbye.
But in the morning’s glory
when I wake up at home
I know the verdant pastures
where imaginations roam.
Me and Freud canoodling at a ‘B’ movie
cheap and cheesy:
low budget bellicose monsters
coming on to
bang central between two parts
of three halves
we laugh and simulate legging it
to the foyer
past pots of salt popcorn and
pitchers of mayonnaise.
flexible causality resuming service
we rub on white stuff
and watch silver screen donkeys frolic
and time flying towards the
Mr Freud stealing a symbolic kiss and
uttering the immortal words
Ooh baby let’s do it again tomorrow night.
I am with you now
fingers pushing against your bones
weaving and knotting vibrant fibres
through and over your cortex hills
pressing your chin wrinkling your cheeks
cascading through valleys
of intense dreaming.
I do not see you.
As I surface, you shrink away,
diluted by functionality.
You are cayenne pepper, nettles:
Crawling, turning, I snatch at nought
and wait for darkness.