Wednesday, 27 April 2011

23: Dream Logic

We were at the crest
of the mountain writing
poems for your sister’s
debutante apocalypse when
a lick of pink fire
leapt from the side of the sun
and beckoned us,
the haggard finger
of the whorehouse’s
oldest madam.

You were singing a shanty
for her wedding; you had
promised the kittens to the Queen.

It was 5a.m. when the
sea hollered to hurry and
you packed our wicker,
trimmed our wicks so
the candles wouldn’t
sputter on the deck.

We set off for the party
on the spine of an albino
lizard who’d promised us
Moroccan scrolls,
strawberry sandwiches
for our troubles.

Delirious for one last
adventure, one more dip
at the apple bob, we whooped,
we leapt; we knew that
sooner or later
a hump
in the road
would wake us.

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