12 March 2014

Sore dreamspot.

3:28 pm Wake up from a bad dream, try to decide in half seconds if one should lose sleep over it.
Close eyes again, try to decide on one reason why one was taking this nap at all.
Shift to another dream. What was good, what was bad. Do day sleepdreams come true.
Why does someone I hardly know have to figure so prominently in such a dream. What about the important people. But what makes them important. I didn't want them to be, pre-sleep. They weren't during sleep. Post sleep why do I have to question what I wanted and got.
Because dreams aren't real? There was a lot of things I did. With previously unimportant people. Now they are someone else. Fall in love with a near stranger, get up to worse things. What's stranger. What's okay?
What's not? It was hardly bizarre. There was an exhibition. A basement. Textiles? Hats? There were parents. There was barefoot me off a school bus. A wrong school bus with the right person.
But there were shifts. And there was filtered sunlight. There was quiet talking. There were faces borrowed from life. Feelings pumped in from some secret little fountain of cruelty. Uneasy feelings replace chokedupness. I think that is nice.
Possibility of scratching a scab lightly as it creates this alien desire is better than flying headfirst to be hurt again.
I can just not scratch at all like a good girl and smile because I know it's healing.
But what was I feeling? Oh it was just a dream. I didn't mean to. But I did. Maybe I want to. I am not but I might and I like the sound of that.

8:36 pm
There's the mild, rainy winds of a drizzle day's end. When air carries around life and doesn't just exist to be breathed in, but felt and loved. Now there are fragments floating around, of an absurd dream, with unimportant people. But the illusion of importance looms in large, crashing into my side, crushing my sense of balance, of this farce sense of understanding that there is some one person that was supposed to be dreamt about. In quite the opposite way, there is no feeling of mad wrongness after the dream.

The various criteria of phasing out people probably vanished from the dream version of love. Maybe it's the new dream version, maybe the strange part of strangeness is being defined and it is not what it was. Maybe it is for good reason that dreams are forgotten and are supposed to be. Everyone is a stranger until they're not.

Maybe the dreams are better at picking out perfectness, or a near perfect wantingness that must exist but won't, because the controllable dreaming is insistent on having to do with unattainability. Maybe one is supposed to have it easy. Maybe dreams aren't that cracked up to be, or they see through a person with much clarity, unclouded with awake feelings. Maybe awake feelings are as absurd as life itself.

And day-long naps have time enough to reach a universe where things are done and not thought. Where one soft love-center candy of life is not covered by concrete textured layer of insecurity and what-ifs. There is no plastic wrapper of  'why the hell at all' and 'that's just not me' and a dozen cellotape layers of 'I don't knows'.

Or the dream just was. And there was happiness. And now there is thought.

8 March 2014


The body cannot contain it. Slips out. It flows.
In throes. Blows low, it slows.
And gushes out.
Now. On the brow. Corner of the eye.
Toe curling, soul stirring, bony.
Hard, simmering soft, brushes against, purring past.
Like the song that played last.

Unanswering, hidden sneeze fills up invisible room.
Dances in disguise.
Releases. Relocates. Recites.
Unheard. Speaks in black and blue.
Exists. Slowly simpers, learns, lingers..
Mirrors the night. One hair at a time.
It listens quietly. It rhymes.

It settles in the corner. Of my sight.
Middle of the unmade mind.
Leans against a quiet heart, it knows.
The history of a sigh, the life of a lie.
By drums, by bells, by blowing shells.
A poem sits by the door.
Leaves cover a wild garden. An old tree silently grows.

Unhurried feet. Absent feet. Imaginary feet.
A welcome mat seat. An irregular beat.

3 March 2014


Much men. Very odd. Such sublime. Wow.
I think Doge would be a good listener. Those eyes.

Complexity derives a certain life from unfiltered feelings. Ego in absentia, superego and id throwing punches at 4 in the night (morning?). There's a part which feels authentic to touch. A soft feather or a sharp knife point. Such delirium, much rollercoaster. While we think deferring gratification/ pleasure in small things exercises the will, 4 o' clock nonfood food is flying around one's head, with broken wings and a Cumberbatchy voice. Saying things which it is not saying.

The next morning at 11:28 it rests on the roof, in the sun, happy with wrecking. Eaten up, it grows on the back of the mind. Sun-soaked and dripping with amusement. It'll settle on the soon to be choked up part of the throat. The part which is happily married to tear ducts for the past almost 22 years. The brain is adamant on infallible reason and dictates severe hard conclusive thoughts to be thingificated.

When the little whispering fairy wafts around, as midnight flies past with amazing rapidity and settles in a nook in the ear, makes itself comfortable, sends along feels of a certain kind. Be amused. Be a muse. See one. See more? See one and feel one. Be it. Be affected, be broken, be yourself.

Muses are imperatively slick with wrongness. A dully sharp wrongness, shifting in the sunlight, pastel shimmery, dark glimmery something right underneath the surface of a placid lake with smooth pebbles, resting with the sun glinting off, reflected in the receding waves, moving about as if writhing in sleep. Flips around in the afternoon sun. Muses are amphibious. They recline against a tree, they don't look at you. You look at the existence of it and write a poem with your nails on a tree bark on the other side of the lake.

Dusty earth whips up tiny storms which cloud up the mind, settle with surprising rapidity, bring the world one little cloud at a time, transferring, transporting, tranforming the mindscape, bringing in the dust of a certain one. Recesses of the mind are not open to brooms or soap or a rough, rough washcloth. Dust settles for eternity, that certain kind, one layer after another, sedimentises.

One often digs up old broken pieces from a hundred years ago but a sudden sandstorm topples over mountains of soft earth, makes it level, makes one see the top layer. It rains and there are roses and they wilt under the strong suspicious, atrocious sun the next day and the mind lays barren until it rains one night at 4 (morning?).

Thinner layers, fewer roses. Much manure, many flowers, lush grass, a gazebo and a lemonade in the dying sun of late evening. Sprinklers are put in place for when there is no rain. It's green and sometimes insects with golden brown wings sprout from the earth and fly off into the distance.

Muses are stranded at different parts of the city, they walk towards an unlit corner and disappear.