Friday, 12 August 2011

Woken

“Please don’t,” I implored. It was too early to think. I was sailing through a dream of the Gypsy captain with rugged fingers, stitching partridge feathers to the underside of the canoe. I petted the feathers as if they were the shaggy coat of a squalid dog.
They curled around my fingers and we shook small hands.

The door buzzed again, yanking me harder from the wallows. I was hurtling back to normality in a flurry of tiny realisations. In a flurry of gnats, or snowstorms.
I could feel a kink in my spine; somewhere a dog barked.
And again, louder.
A hand placed itself in the cave of my back and shoved.
A voice hissed, “LOOK.”
My treacherous eyes opened, and I lay in bed, awake.

I didn’t want to be woken. I’d been waltzing a filth match with the boys from Beirut, I’d been tumblestiltzken, head over heels. There was candy cane sugar corn handcuffs in the dream, softer than the venus flytrap’s velvet tongue.

“Please don’t,” I asked the day and it heehawed back, no sympathy for the swatches of my sleep.

I didn’t want to be woken. But the world oozed in to oil Morpheus’ palms and I slithered from his grasp and it was morning. I was catapulted from the snug. I woke up. It was daytime and I was lost to my dreams.

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