The Dream
Birthing belief in the stars, I feel the suck swooping down to encompass my silent haggis. Her rattle swears in its own single mammogram clutch selling crystal liquid from a bottle, The container that produces me spinning overhead like a cat in a burlap sack or a sacrificial chicken. Writing poetry over the wall furiously with blood green and messy, she is… Singing along with the echoes of her voice bouncing across the wallpaper around my mind Rattling with magnesium bullets, ricocheting in the ramshackle village where I grew up, showing bones bleached in the moonlight. My list of worries selfishly rolls out onto the floor, scratching the tile with a shifty rustling, like snakeskin catching on grass, My skin has risen, but I don't mind since I have forgotten what it felt like and don't know or care. In a sweat full of cheap and easy transactions, I awake, And awash with the wonder of clarity becoming emptiness, I look up to the blue sky