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harry-randle-marshPoems
From the very far dark, deep and beating black, there’s ghost breath, and blue light after, where I un-broke myself, next morning. I’m under, curled to a pupil of the bed’s eye, so I blink the dream out. Asleep, plants are respiring, and the loam of their dream is lifting, thinner. Then the real interrupts, erupting as a day, and shimmering back again. Like the shore that shares it’s time between sand and ocean. A fully open cup fills up in the moment, wherein that infinite shrinks, and the universe grows backwards, backwards Into, cold coffee and dog ends. Strange that. It's not a nocturne, It's an echoe of a day, It's a memory of a memory, It's a remora on reality. Strange that. why when last night, my ashtray was full of stars. The clock infinitely deepens the memory of the dream. But it’s there, only just there. That maybe, perhaps, dreaming of us, somewhere in the brightest time of the night, somewhere in sleep, in the inbetween spaces, somewhere there, we left ourselves in mermaid’s purses.
0
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 1:09 PM UTC
Mermaid's Purses
From the very far dark, deep and beating black, there’s ghost breath, and blue light after, where I un-broke myself, next morning. I’m under, curled to a pupil of the bed’s eye, so I blink the dream out. Asleep, plants are respiring, and the loam of their dream is lifting, thinner. Then the real interrupts, erupting as a day, and shimmering back again. Like the shore that shares it’s time between sand and ocean. A fully open cup fills up in the moment, wherein that infinite shrinks, and the universe grows backwards, backwards Into, cold coffee and dog ends. Strange that. It's not a nocturne, It's an echoe of a day, It's a memory of a memory, It's a remora on reality. Strange that. why when last night, my ashtray was full of stars. The clock infinitely deepens the memory of the dream. But it’s there, only just there. That maybe, perhaps, dreaming of us, somewhere in the brightest time of the night, somewhere in sleep, in the inbetween spaces, somewhere there, we left ourselves in mermaid’s purses.
A poem about dreaming. "He did not know whether it was Chuang Chou dreaming that he was a butterfly, or whether it was the butterfly dreaming that it was Chuang Chou."
#dream#sleep#reality#night#mermaid#birth#purses
harry-randle-marsh
Written by
harry-randle-marsh
English
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 1:09 PM UTC
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