Fractal patterned sunlight through leaves and blinds, reads red on the inside of your eyelids like code for a morning wasted.
Warmth cocooned in silence hum until music rises to bloom in the room and lift your heart above the parapet of morning melancholy.
And down the hill through ill-named streets the town goes about its business regardless – the traffic roars to what destination? To what end?
Petrol fumes and fuels the frenetic tempo of commerce; retail ragtime; runs shop floor assistants ragged on varicose veins while dancing middle managers feel the fear of discovery breathing rhythmic cold shivers down the backs of their necks.
And pumping the heart drum beat; restless lunchtime shoppers on the hop for replacement ink cartridges and synthetic sandwiches washed down on the run with effervescent coloured water or korporate koffee to up-tempo that beat and elevate blood pressure.
Or for the more driven: a stolen gym half-hour spent walking on the spot; Sisyphean endeavours to keep head above water.
On the edge of the land the surf roars in wintertime solitude; mist from wave crests paint concrete promenade cracking where grey headed time keepers spend spare change hours marking time before inevitable demise.
And out beyond the last roller; where the heart flat-lines on the horizon’s cold rim; the edge of the world loiters for no one to see.
Dragons and sea-serpents wait in vain anticipation for those travellers who no longer dare to venture forth beyond cushioned comfort zone.
The earth is flat you see.
Or so proclaims the cabin boy; last one standing on the dead galleon that drifts crewless and clueless to the demise of its captain whose empire is now nought but a layer between ice age and adage; fossilised folly; carbon dated catastrophe for carbon based dynasty – his Marie Celeste dinner waits deliciously cooling for his ghost to complete the duties that compound and proliferate in dust and in cobwebs.
Cobwebs constructed by ancient time travellers and dream reapers to harvest the energy expended by stars falling between Eurydice and your eyes.
And your eyelids flutter at the approaching sun’s presence, bringing life to the room where you doze in a reality whose waters lap quietly at the edges of your awareness.
The bathroom tap drips in the silence of a house so recently vacated by music.
Warmth cocooned in silence hum until music rises to bloom in the room and lift your heart above the parapet of morning melancholy.
And down the hill through ill-named streets the town goes about its business regardless – the traffic roars to what destination? To what end?
Petrol fumes and fuels the frenetic tempo of commerce; retail ragtime; runs shop floor assistants ragged on varicose veins while dancing middle managers feel the fear of discovery breathing rhythmic cold shivers down the backs of their necks.
And pumping the heart drum beat; restless lunchtime shoppers on the hop for replacement ink cartridges and synthetic sandwiches washed down on the run with effervescent coloured water or korporate koffee to up-tempo that beat and elevate blood pressure.
Or for the more driven: a stolen gym half-hour spent walking on the spot; Sisyphean endeavours to keep head above water.
On the edge of the land the surf roars in wintertime solitude; mist from wave crests paint concrete promenade cracking where grey headed time keepers spend spare change hours marking time before inevitable demise.
And out beyond the last roller; where the heart flat-lines on the horizon’s cold rim; the edge of the world loiters for no one to see.
Dragons and sea-serpents wait in vain anticipation for those travellers who no longer dare to venture forth beyond cushioned comfort zone.
The earth is flat you see.
Or so proclaims the cabin boy; last one standing on the dead galleon that drifts crewless and clueless to the demise of its captain whose empire is now nought but a layer between ice age and adage; fossilised folly; carbon dated catastrophe for carbon based dynasty – his Marie Celeste dinner waits deliciously cooling for his ghost to complete the duties that compound and proliferate in dust and in cobwebs.
Cobwebs constructed by ancient time travellers and dream reapers to harvest the energy expended by stars falling between Eurydice and your eyes.
And your eyelids flutter at the approaching sun’s presence, bringing life to the room where you doze in a reality whose waters lap quietly at the edges of your awareness.
The bathroom tap drips in the silence of a house so recently vacated by music.
4 comments:
I love this piece and also like what i was able to see of the link you sent me .You know what you rock .
I found this blog surfing.
Pardon my comment for being telegraphic; good work.
A particularly fine piece, full of quiet breath taking images. If I were to pick a favourite it would have to be the cobwebs spun by ancient time travellers intent on harvesting energy.
My last vivid dream was set in a bookshop in a shopping centre (careful with that euphemism Freud). I did have a particularly interesting one about cannibalism in an ex-psychiatric hospital.
There now I’m inspired yet again to publish my dreams.
This blog entry has earwormed the song, "Dream Weaver" into my brain for two days now.
"Dream weaver, I believe you help me through the niiiighhtt.....".
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