Have you every had that weird fantasia sort of dream.
Where you can’t see beyond the silver screen.
The infinite edges are no-where to be seen.
Greyness is black and red is green.
Straight lines are wavering slivery beams.
Stitched inside your brain’s sewn-up seams.
Bagged and tagged a pale corpse unseen.
Blueness in blood and plasma in streams.
Like chunky bittersweet rhubarb pie and cream.
Being injected directly into your open arteries.
Hallucinating a mad, mindless vortex of fun and games.
Spiralling outside in moonshine, as bleak bedroom coldness reigns.
Over mountains made of bland home-style rabbit stew.
Slowly eaten with a wooden teaspoon, hundreds of times.
Digested, your tummy gurgles and ejects buckets of spew.
While a hairless dog chases the postie’s bike, a whistle screams.
Dawn awakened to ice-covered broken plates and frozen lakes.
Shattered upon creek-bed rocks and your floor’s underlay.
This nightmare dream begun in April and ended dismayed.
Ivor Steven (c)