Posts Tagged ‘Dreams’

When I was young,
I once had a nightmare,
A dream of the most surreal kind,
Was it some ghost?
A bogeyman?
Nothing so mundane I’m afraid,
It was an orb floating in my room,
A ball of yarn unravelling,
With the consistency of intestines,
Of offal,
Crimson weeping from it,

An alien gurgling emanated from it,
Mocking my own heartbeat,
I was struck dumb by it,
Unable to move,
Bloodshot eyes fixated,
Until the yarn was almost unwound,
But then I awoke,
So what did it mean?
I’ve never sussed it out,
I’m not closer to understanding,
I fear I never will.

Dreams are films we watch each night,
With synopses nor subtitles,
They produce not a lick of sense,
Nor storylines of logic,
But they’re not meaningless,
You see,
They’re the language of the mind,
The most foreign of tongues,
Equal parts artwork and insanity,
With themes and actors obscured by fog,

They require a translator,
A diviner,
An oneiromancer,
One who can read their obtuse scrawls,
What the dreams mean,
To guide us through their thorny mazes,
To see where they’ll lead,
To fix their curved mirrors,
What they’re telling us,
What they’re warning us.

When I write,
I fashion wings to soar away,
With words in place of feathers,
Verbs and emotions as down,
The ink acting as glue,
Wielding these curious machinations,
I long to swim on the zephyrs,
To travel betwixt sun and moon,
To spit in the eyes of vain gods,
Madness perhaps,
I’m not like Icarus though,
Wings not built of wax,
But of honest dreams,
And dreams are fireproof.

Midnight has come,
And still I walk,
I’m free on these twilit highways,
Coyote eyes in the moonlight,
No destination among these mesas and dust,
No endgame,
I’m simply chasing distant storms,

The breeze is a constant static in my ears,
My only companions the vultures overhead,
Silhouetted against the face of the moon,
Blood specks upon the asphalt,
But still I follow this trail,
Goaded by distant thunder and close air,
One foot after another,

Forever into the night.

From this lethargic window,
I often look up at the sky,
Tracing dreams in the clouds,
And I see those birds,
Vibrant flocks eloping to freedom,
They leave little pinions of colour,
Like love letters with no recipient,
A rain of sentiment in myriad pigment,

Each feather tells a story,
Of grief and bliss and love,
Recited as I run my finger across,
Silent but clear as day,
The birds fly on lighter,
I’m left behind in the grey,
With this plumage of fables cast off,
A mottle they needed to disperse to reach paradise.

Sometimes sleep can be like visiting a menagerie,
A mad array of mental toys,
Dancing and cajoling and fighting,
I close my eyes,
Logic takes the exit door,
And the toybox opens,
An entire universe of prisms and colours emerge,
Faces and pyramids and music,
Skeletons dancing against my backlit skull,
All things blended into storylines that make no sense,
It feels good,
Unconsciousness is my minds best therapy,
The crazier the dreams,
The better the rest.

As I rise from my crypt,
I feel as if some presence rises with me,
An ethereal force,
Like my dreams have pierced forth from my mind,
Transmogrifying before my sleepy eyes,

Butterflies in every shade,
Once greyscale,
Then shifting to each and every colour in turn,
Phantasms in flight,
Fluttering around the room in lyrical patterns,

The projections grow more maddening,
Hypnotising my cortices,
Spelling out words that seem gibberish,
Images of make-believe realms,
Visual patterns put my brain through a blender,

Was any of this real?
Horror and euphoria and mystique brewed together,
Who knows?
But only the sunrise did quell the mania,
And weld my brain back together again.

Yet another door of sleep I have passed,
Into a nebula of dreams,
A fruit salad of ether,
Pinks and yellows and indigos,
A jungle of numberless stars,
A ballroom of comets,
Stupefaction blended twixt disquiet,

I’m an unidentified flying object,
Exploring this ominous sea of clouds,
Surging through the pink smog,
Imitating the likes of the perseids,
Freaky ghosts of planets pass,
Wearing their plated asteroid belts,
The nebulae all around like silken veils,

Ahead I glimpse a conflux of obsidian and rose,
A wicked black hole,
Gawping as if at a banquet,
Assimilating every vapour of fuchsia mist,
Intrigued I peer into the abyss,
Within it is earthly chaos,
The morning sun.

The days insanity has come to an end,
Your body is weary,
Its defences worn down to soft grain,
Your head pounds with harmful influences,
You lay it down to recuperate,
Upon your factory of dreams,

Unforeseen the silence crawls over you,
And with it the demons multiply,
Salivating over the cracks in your psyche,
Malicious maneuvers in the dark,
They would ravage you like countless hypodermic needles,
Save for the defence resting above your bed,

An arcane symbol from the first nations,
Molded of willow and spider sinew,
Spindly weaponry of Asibikaashi,
A conduit through which your dreams can be mobilised,
As an aetheric crusade against the night,
Old magic to protect you until the morn.

I descend in to my sarcophagus,
To rejuvenate this faded corpus,
To replace grey with luminosity,
My self-imposed hypnosis,
Death with benefits,
My nightly reprieve,

Hither to my closed eyes comes a slideshow,
Disjointed images with no rhyme nor reason,
Castles riding upon clouds and birds flying backwards,
Conversations that never occurred and lessons never taught,
Stars playing chess with bolts of silk,
Vagaries and illusions in tropical colours,

My sense becomes a nebula,
Colourful and vibrant in the extreme but vaporous,
This nightly madness has done its due,
I awaken scarred and grinning,
Feeling ever more liberated but less stable,
A clown ready for the banal day,

Until my next death,
Next rest.