Recurring dream 1: Drowning

 

They say it’s nice to drown,
peaceful to drown,
swallow your tongue,
shut yourself up like a pearl in a clam,
let it rush into every hole in your face  –

I plough like a cosmonaut losing memories
Surrounded by diaphanous tremblings,
Surfacing every three moons or so
To set my eyes on the prize of a particular liner,
To swipe wetly upwards
At the sky and her yellow jewellery.

I’m not surprised by the cold,
I welcome the white frail blaze of it –
Let me break the surface with a
Frothy lace collar
and then
Rain on me,
Pelt me,
‘Til we all become one another,
And I will feel it like a tremulous applause of tiny fists,
Knocking on the sand ten miles away.
I am shivering between shoals,
Joyfully sailing with silver starlings,
(How have I come to it so late –
This joy of flying?)

The water is at times a tortured mask
That I wear like a shifting grey veil,
I wrap my thighs around it’s efforts,
And we churn our legs like a billion dying insects.
(The green will reach out and mouth you,
But the splinters will not stick.)

Colours:
Bleached,
Frigid grey,
Dark wholesome,
Bible black,
My lips part for the waves blowing back –
And my body has no blood,
No organs,
Hollow but for the colours of the gloom.

I am a drifting column,
An angel of sand
knobbled stars suck at my head –

(So this is it –

This is what it is to be dead.)

I will meet you here
in this fantasy of glass,
We won’t even speak,
And we never needed words anyhow,
We will just elegantly teeter on the very edge of dreams –
Floating together loose and unsinkable
Like two formless sheets of hooked reflections
That drape and move and are never lost.
And I could cry now just thinking of it,
I’m crying now just thinking of it,
I want us to live in a miracle,
Two spectres between the spectrum of the layers –

I can’t be up there anymore,
I can’t be part of the sculptures….

and neither can you.

Am I any closer?
How many leagues?
How many times do I have to visit?
How much closer can I get?

And when I wake up saved,
Will I wear this dream upon me…?

Will I stick to my blue sheets?

Will my hair be wet?

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