Caught between dreams and nightmares,
somewhere along the hazy, swirly bridge
across from consciousness to sleep,
dwells The Melting Void.
Repeating past cinematic images,
distorted by reality and nonsense
adorn the moving walls within.
That long corridor from your old school
opens to a shopping centre miles away.
Dead people still walk the limbo lands
interacting with you slightly, once more.
Mothers long gone still scowl aloud
as babies with butterfly wings fly on by.
There’s a distant drumming inside your heart
whilst an adrenalin train choo-choos
through your inside falling parachute veins.
A snippet of the movie ‘Cold Mountain’
a sentence from Rimbaud’s ‘A Season In Hell’
That seashell glistening in your eight year old hand
Feeling the notes from John Martyn’s guitar
curl around you like a fern in the spring.
Treacle, bacon, yin yang moon’s, beer-slops,
the smell of wood carvings and the taste
of dirty old pennies and shillings.
And fluffy forgetfulness… gently now…
forgetfulness… rest… and… sleep… deep.
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