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The girl in my dreams
is not the Girl Of My Dreams.
The girl in my dreams
is a dream, not a girl.
Ephemeral as an 80s B-list starlet,
gauche garish gorgeous Kim Chemtrail.
Yet also a goddess template,
Aphrodite Melainis
scantilyclad in sambhogakaya.

IRL I flop on the family sofa,
a throne of domus et placens uxor,
nottomention my heart's megastar my daughter.
Yet inmyheadinbed, composite nondescript
geheimniskramerin girl
pulls up alluringly in a stolenconvertible
stolen from the 'no time to explain' meme,
jauntily exhorts, 'Jump in! I'll tell you
we're going nowhere on the way!'

She sparks me up an ex-addict's nonaddictive
dream ciggie (still a nightly motif,
tho' 5 years clear of Lucifer's leaf).
Her composite nondescript organic
signalbox of a shifting photofit dreamface
I can't quite place.  
But she has a name, this fume fatale:
Nonia Art Thrush. & a battlecry:
'Namas'cray till athanasy!'

Is Nonia Art Thrush
the girlnextdoor
from the cosmicinflationary brane nextdoor?
Are dreams a multiversal telepathic datingapp
for la creamy reruns of lacrimae rerum
on the Earth at Lagrangepoint 3,
where Nonia's my girl
when the Sham Pistols ruled the world?
She's not a girl from another poem,

tho' she could be the femmeinspiratrice
of all my fragma & very,very late uptodate
mature juvenalia, the nominelle negatotty
Dulcinea del Tanothetawave
who favours my quest
for Artistic Failure,
poesy w/ no ring to it. Honestlynot
a tosstalgic wifeinwatercolours
under oneiric slylid covers

(tho' she may boast grainy shifty
magnificent ghostbristols
of undulating proportions & angles):
the girl in my dreams
is not The Girl Of My Dreams.
She could be some Venus usherette,
bangtidy holy midinette, some former fondler
over yonder, the one who gotaway
my grey beautycomputer can't remember.

Composint **** squintingly minted
for REM cameo (tonic/phasic mo', not Mike Stipe & Co)
in some avenue scene fugue
of dreary bleary dream.
In the hinterplaying hinterior, where
oracles forage in the dark in the past,
& I snore a traumarbeit breathoflife
into phantoms nostalgia warehoused
by my ostrichopus unconscious.

Despite all my age,
I'm still just a nostalgerbil in a cage
of longing for the longings of longago.
I twinge w/ wist tinged by the mist
of Nonia Art Thrush as she diZZZolves
into the ideal foam of Dream's
foundations. L/ Nora Fries,
a bride on ice, for still was the life
that dies in the mind.

Paramnesic Nod's
just the worldride rerouted for sleepers,
leased creatures blithe. I rollover
to my wife,  noctivagant gallant
who's been by herside allnight.
'Namas'cray till athanasy,'
I mutter. 'What's that, hubbers?'
'Erm, it's Bedfordshire's county motto,
my hardlight angel Aurora, it means:

'The girl in my dreams
is not The Girl Of My Dreams.'
L Jul 2018
That **** hurts. So many feelings stemming. Hurt, sadness, frustration. Im just trying to take care of my ****. Im doing my thing.
Can I not relax? Can I not stop?


Forever on this hamster wheel called life; forever just a rat in a cage. Fatten me up for the snake. Get nice and familiar; comfortable. Before I disappear, look unto me. See what it is you are doing. Take a look at me. And then really take a good look at yourself.
Wallow swallow tallow mallow follow.

— The End —