Dust Bunny

There’s something under my bad,
A shadowy ghoul,
I hear it,
As I bang my head against the wall of sleep,
My duvet a cushy restraint,
Complicit in this uneasy atmosphere,
The thing slinks from one end of the bed to the other,
With the mad grace of a fish out of water,

I’ve never seen it,
But it smells of dust and sulphur,
I hear it every night,
It clicks unknowable limbs in revolting movements,
Scuffling about and giggling to itself,
Speaking in ornery tongues,
Alien fangs gnawing on fingernails,
Rustling against the bedframe with oily hair or scales,

I do wonder if it ever peeks out,
I dare not look,
But when I close my eyes finally,
I feel palpable vision upon me.

Dreamshow

Sleep beckons once more,
As your energy finally yields,
And the caress of sleep warmly coalesces,
The whirr of a projector flares up,
And the minds eye takes stock,
Takes note of the commencing slideshow,
Memories shown in amber light,

Images of your past indeed,
But somehow distorted by chronology,
Actions you don’t remember playing out,
Conversations turned on their heads,
Actors swapped betwixt,
Good times blended with horrid,
Colours of emotions besmirched with dust,

As the projection clicks on,
As your eyes strain in the dark,
You doubt the veracity of what you see,
Of what your mind believes,
Are they truly the past?
Or is this show imaginary?
What you wished had happened instead?

Wicked Eyes

I am dragged from my sleeping nirvana,
To a bedroom suddenly unfamiliar,
An unseen force holds me in place,
Diabolic manacles upon each limb,
The bed becomes a gaol,
The infinite weight of sleep paralysis,
I feel ominous eyes upon me,

Two corpselights in the corner,
Limpid apertures flaunting hells own fires,
Fixated upon me like an eagle spying prey,
There’s a malice behind them,
A demonic spite,
Ice-cold dread burning as the eyes approach,
Twin lasers cutting into my very bones,

As the eyes draw close,
Enough to feel the abominable heat,
Swelter emanating from them as if breathing,
They simply stare in ghoulish hate,
Holding inches away with their malicious effusion,
Feasting upon my soul in its throes of terror,
Until the morning comes with banishing sun.

Dreamcatcher

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.

Dreams

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.

Hellscape

When asked to describe my dreams,
To understand my nightly process,
I flip a coin,
To judge which dreamland I last inhabited,
The misty nirvana of colour and vividity,
Or the dread hellscape,

The latter often wins,
Indeed it is the more trod upon,
A grey and harsh wasteland,
With gargantuan twisted spires of charcoal,
Echoes of an inferno,
A haven of abominations,

A dappled waste by any other measure,
The wind is a sad accordion,
Piercing cries always from great distance,
Aural mirages,
A perennial eclipse,
The crying stars are merely wisps,

Here I find my monsters,
Here I breed their evil,
Unfathomable muses that they are,
My quill is my baton to subdue them,
Their horror becomes my ink,
To carve my art into parchment,

Sometimes I bring the things back…

When I awake,
I gaze glossy-eyed out of my window,
As I tell my querier,
And I see a similar hellscape,
Replete with misery,
But perhaps more.

The Eclipse

There was an eclipse last night,
The atmosphere grew heavy,
I scanned it with bloodshot eyes,
And I grew fearful,
To witness such beauty being obscured,
By a shadow of such an evil thing,

Witching hour…

As the lunar goddess was enshrouded,
The voices began their furor,
Rageful claws bore down,
Driven insane by the night air,
Be they spectre or succubi?
I was not privy,

New dawn…

I awaken sore and beaten,
Crimson scratches down my back,
A bruise or four,
I leave the abode into daylight,
The sun has taken the sky,
And I grow fearful.

Torpor

I slept,

I lost my teeth last night,
They were taken by little hands,
Shadowy hands,
Teeming from every nook and cranny,
Of this shaded cell,
A host of impish incubi,

I stirred,

I can’t fight back,
Sleep paralysis,
The image of the hag holds me down,
My eyes simply spectate,
This sinister comedy,
The hands mock my seeming,

I woke,

I need my teeth,
For without them,
How am I to entertain the guests?
The lords and ladies,
The drunkards and jezebels,
I’ll be a waking pariah,

I cried.

Sculptor Of Fears

Do you ever feel nightmares are handmade?
A cruel intelligence behind them,
A sculptor of fears,
Tied to our minds like a parasite,
Cognizant of our weaknesses,
Finding joy in our panic,

Horrifically creative,
And wickedly persistent,
Our sculptor fashions every horror,
Under the red moon,
I see them,
In my throes,

Spectres of all styles,
Screaming and weeping,
A leap of death,
You can’t avoid,
A tide of necrotic flesh,
Gnashing fangs and claws,

An endless watery abyss,
That holds myriad evils,
An unravelling yarn,
Rippling like a beating heart,
A terrible dark shape,
Blades following you through the halls,

I awaken a pitiable thing,
My veins become cascades of ice,
Have I escaped?
Please wake me,
Drag me from this thing,
This sculptor of fears.

The Voices

Last night,
In the early hours,
As the candles began to gutter,
Even as my eyes grew heavy,
And the evenings ale wore off,

I had a totally sane gab,
A completely lucid discourse,
With one of the voices,
Inside my cranium,
Or maybe several,

Voices of all pitches,
Their words cut into me,
Dark blades of tongues,
The points they raise are evil yet compelling,
I’m not fit for society,

The moon tried to interrupt,
Drawing me towards sleep,
Its song couldn’t be dampened,
Much to my minds dismay,
The voices continue their assault,

Sleep was no escape,
A failed escape attempt,
The voices followed,
The debate raged on,
In my nightmares.