Creeping through turbulent ebony Sandman’s Toil A torn child drifting, backwards towards the sun, between the waxy clasps and teardrops, the amber waves of cum. Beckoned by a finger, still clenched within a fist, her bless’ed bells were silenced, chimes rusted in the mist. Surrounded by harsh whispers, of ghosts I’d laid to sleep, great sails that bellow inwards, and cloud the past I keep. Intertwined their rushes, that saturate my shore, sheltered accusations, that lap against my oar. Candles on the water, light the way out of the stream, lanterns on the pillow, lead lost thoughts through the dream, the heavens may expire, whiter winters cease, but only with your thumbprint, do I find my true release. 1.17pm Flash back on Old Compton Someone tried to Xerox my dream this morning, I know because I can still see grey sparkles, behind my eyelids when I blink. It’s not even as if it was a new one, a dream from which inventions could be blueprinted, or answers could be found, the ending was blurred, the beginning abrupt. But somewhere in the middle, in about the third second of screening, I think there were some wings, attached to something that might have been worth stealing. Lucky for me I awoke, and when I opened my eyes, the thief was gone, just like the dream. Angling ~ the art of sleep I’d paint a portrait of your thoughts, and sign it in oils in my own initials, enveloped in a teverish slumber, you pose to the nines. A thumbnail sketch carved in crayon, cannot contour the colours you cast. Your eyelids roll, spinning their reels, like a dream on a fishing line, tugging you into the water, it’s only time that awaits you on the river bank, with an empty basket. Desire is the bait, she'll only show when you’re alone, because she knows you’ll only bite, when the moor hens are tied for the night. Antelope Gas Station We’re they springboks or Reeboks running around the petrol pumps? In the fake forecourt halo, I never could tell. The way the albino acrylic sign swung at the roadside, riding the waves of passing vehicles, a white horse breaking the telegraph line currents, that follow the trucks out of town. Zoning in the service booth, void of sleep and the banquet it brings, I only register the rustles of another drive-by burger bag, growing ketchup butterflies like blotting paper, smearing to the touch. His eyes looked drained and dendritic, like the hard ground beneath pump 4, and shrouded in a beautiful fog, from the smouldering cigarette on his lower lip. I don’t object when he holds a chrome necked black hole to the glass between us, half wanting to dive into the silver tunnel and lie in the chamber. I open the drawer, scatter the paper into the sliding food hatch, and push it through. As he grabs it and turns, his head slips behind the round meshed perspex vent in the glass, and I smile. For a moment there I witnessed him from the kaleidoscope eye of a fly, he had a thousand faces, like an I.D. parade on an ant farm, I counted the ants. I finally found my feast in safety, under the counter she kept me close as the fly flew, and the undertow of wires pulled him away, into the dark distant desert, and out of my dream. Paradise tubes the paradise tube tugs at the lobes of every weary eyed generation, a baton of bliss to pass on before stumbling into every open-mouthed ditch behind each step, to saunter renders whistles from the canopy, to tilt conducts the carpet of the insect world, rejuvenating the underground. gripped in the middle they feel no pending bulge, as natural selection inbreeds from within each tag. I'm running with a rainforest across my shoulder, and running from the choice that agriculture convoys, deep within the treads, i'm where life used to be, entangled in the threads, of another family tree. I'm still standing, but i'd never give up my seat.
	glaze or gaze