Monday, 23 September 2013


It’s claimed the drink
transports the drinker to the land of those
who imagine themselves dead
where they are issued with new clothes
& forget how to read & write.

They are then tasked with writing
their memoirs from a future death
& reading them in a good clear voice
to selected citizens in a small theatre
very close to a larger theatre.


So many hours in so many days
to be alone. It took what seemed
hours & days to cross the abandoned ground
to read the sign which said
private property keep out.

Miraculously time ran backwards.
We maybe thought it was warmer than it was
but wearing overcoats would have inconvenienced us
as we raced across the abandoned ground
scattering revolutionary tracts as we went.


Then everything dims
when you close your eyes
horror images float
you’ve lost the use of your legs
there’s no one to beg for a glass of water.

On a quiet street
the doorbell rings
you can’t answer it
whoever it was goes away
& you can’t help but close your eyes again.

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