Tag Archives: dreams

Somewhere Else

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I’m in that cream sunday daze and the light from the portholes isn’t enough to spoil the colour of the walls like skin like eyelids

I feel you holding me in your sleep and for the first time it isn’t claustrophobic 

For the first time I don’t get anxious about moving or waking the other person – waking you – because now everything is okay

The smell of spring is waiting around the truck 

I think if I get up the morning will massage my skin with its cold fingers so I glaze over at the back doors for a while and the chair and the piles of beloved and lost things

I imagine the stories of those pieces I don’t know, a faded shirt from a treasured night or gifted from an old friend, a half-empty tin of lighter fuel, piles of carefully chosen sea stones

I see a face looking up at me and a tail wagging and

if he knows I’m awake

well, I mean, who can say no to that?

As I slide out of bed you grumble something and stifle a chuckle and turn over to the wall

I mind my feet  and as I unlatch the door and drop it down to let the world in

as I feel fur brushing against my calves and knees, 

I remember

I’m sat on a toilet 

the speaker plays soft sad boy and sad girl music 

the hair of the bath mat between my toes

I was reading poems while the shit poured from me 

and I started to think I was somewhere else

Bull

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then we’re back at the bar, this little shanty place in the brown below and shade of a steel bridge, open, food stalls, picnic benches, but quiet or even private
this big guy I know walks in ahead and is throwing his weight around again, he pulls this pistol out from the usual place and starts waving it
before long he’s shooting me a few times like he does, a few bullets in the arms, especially the shoulders, some go through and some stay, I stand and take it for a while but it’s not just me, and I’m angry but it’s not just me, this other man who came in with us, he makes it bigger than just me and big bull, I walk up to the bull and take his gun, point it into his forehead and whatever snarls he had becomes this calm visage, he smiles, there’s an acceptance, a desire for death, a kind of only mildly suppressed self knowledge here, almost stripped bare, the fact of a gun barrel in the folds on your forehead, at least, that’s how it all seems
I misfire
He takes the gun back and points it at me, I guess sad, I guess angry, I guess usual
Suddenly I have to decide whether to make my peace, and I suppose I have to, if death is coming I think I can’t panic and piss myself and shit and scream out, no, I think I have to be calm and look down the barrel and look down the eyes so we both know the score, and everything that dies can die peacefully
He misfires
The gun is empty.

A Red Handkerchief on Grass

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i’m talking to you on the phone with the messages, you’re sending me them and I’m sleepy and in the bed and lying next to her and the sheets are up in me, the sun is coming through yellowy; outside the bed is cold inside the bed is warm
you’re talking in my inner ear with your messages and I’m sending you back, the phone is down and on the floor and in my inner eye you’re walking along this sunny afternoon street to me, you’re in her body and I know and you look at me knowingly but you don’t say why. We know it.
you walk over to me on the grass talking normally, her voice not like her, not unlike you, you sit down next to me talking the same message, there is a tree and a house, I don’t register what you’re saying but it is normal and alright
I want to say I can’t look into her eyes with you in them, look a little too long, and see the mouth, nose, brows and in those features your face looking back, I want you to know I went to sleep wet and this is me dreaming
you might be saying, I might be hearing
I’m reaching over to press down on the clit you’re wearing, soft cotton on top and pushing and you moaning, and warm overhanging in the sun, I mount you, feeding you thru her, in the grass, in the heat
in a sharp movement you get up and back into your body, all in one swift motion but not quite, like a few frames of film were missing, and you walk off, and I feel you; behind you and next to me where we shared blood and semen, a red handkerchief lying flat out as if to absorb stains
I wake up wet and look over at her, sleeping in the white sheets in the yellow light, my hair is in my eyes, I reach for the phone and drop it again, I turn over and stretch out on the mattress and on the pillows, and I rub myself in the mattress, and it hurts in my heart but tenderly and I remember how you sometimes wish you are a woman too