Prompt: Write about a recurring dream.
…………
They say it’s nice to drown,
peaceful to drown,
swallow your tongue,
shut yourself up like a pearl in a clam,
let it rush into every hole in your face -
I plough like a cosmonaut losing memories
Surrounded by diaphanous tremblings,
Surfacing every three moons or so
To set my eyes on the prize of a particular liner,
To swipe wetly upwards
At the sky and her yellow jewellery.
I’m not surprised by the cold,
I welcome the white frail blaze of it -
Let me break the surface with a
Frothy lace collar
and then
Rain on me,
Pelt me,
‘Til we all become one another,
And I will feel it like a tremulous applause of tiny fists,
Knocking on the sand ten miles away.
I am shivering between shoals,
Joyfully sailing with silver starlings,
(How have I come to it so late -
This joy of flying?)
The water is at times a tortured mask
That I wear like a shifting grey veil,
I wrap my thighs around it’s efforts,
And we churn our legs like a billion dying insects.
(The green will reach out and mouth you,
But the splinters will not stick.)
Colours:
Bleached,
Frigid grey,
Dark wholesome,
Bible black,
My lips part for the waves blowing back -
And my body has no blood,
No organs,
Hollow but for the colours of the gloom.
I am a drifting column,
An angel of sand
knobbled stars **** at my head -
(So this is it -
This is what it is to be dead.)
I will meet you here
in this fantasy of glass,
We won’t even speak,
And we never needed words anyhow,
We will just elegantly teeter on the very edge of dreams -
Floating together loose and unsinkable
Like two formless sheets of hooked reflections
That drape and move and are never lost.
And I could cry now just thinking of it,
I’m crying now just thinking of it,
I want us to live in a miracle,
Two spectres between the spectrum of the layers -
I can’t be up there anymore,
I can’t be part of the sculptures….
and neither can you.
Am I any closer?
How many leagues?
How many times do I have to visit?
How much closer can I get?
And when I wake up saved,
Will I wear this dream upon me...?
Will I stick to my blue sheets?
Will my hair be wet?
a stream of memories, dreams are oddly and sometimes sad.