Night In

Is there only one way to spend a night?
While the throng bathe in their alehouses,
Falling down their own rabbit holes,
Drinking up the booze and bodies,
As for this clown,
At times it is better to stay home,
So I do,

A serenity is filling this hovel,
I greet the quiet like a lost sibling,
Embracing my duvet and cushion friends,
The fireplace licks calmly at my toes,
I’m simply existing in my own space,
Catching up on that picture or that tome,
It’s a personal health visit,

You can keep your fireworks,
You can have all of those jazzy shots,
You can have all of the rowdy fun,
I’m having a night in,
Just this once.

Good Sleep

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.

Phantasmagoria

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.

Hibernation

Oh yes,
I get those days,
Where sloth is my pushy friend,
And all the electrolytes in the world can’t raise me,
I batten down the hatches,
And curl up in my bedcover castle,
With my pillow soldiers,
My personal winter has come,
So I must hibernate,
The body decomposes in repose,
And let no angel wake me,
Until I’m ready.

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.