reversal of a dream

2

play it loud, they demanded.
[LOUDER!!]
who are these people…
… the decapitated people in my dreams?
played people can be dangerous people if,
like Tarot cards; they fall
into the wrong
hands-
then the fool is hanged.
in giant wastelands
i stand,
beneath a sky so vast
i cannot see its seams,
nor breaking point.
my journey begins
with a book in my hand
and a hawk on my shoulder
and thoughts older
than fire.
a skyful
of paper kites, their tails
kicking out-
flickery flickering ticks of
tape.
too many swingers and swings, and
not enough roundabouts
to turn around
and sing.
i dance barefoot
on crushed pearl.
who is that girl
in the broken glass mirror,
amid a cloud of white
balloons?
a naked angel
stands, watching,
smoking a cigarette,
his mouth taped shut;
his pubic hair, a tangled forest.
i guess he’s just like the rest of us,
painting a picture.
his hands are dirty
like her mind.
hailstones fall
from between her legs
as the storm shakes
and breaks the Earth
in two.
feeling broken into,
the Holy Man urges,
in hushed low tones,
“leave me alone..!”.
so i lay on the ground,
amid the screams of
car alarms and
crashing
waves, and i can
feel the Earth
move
though i am upside down
looking down upon my
soul.
i see self, thrashing,
and the wind blow
through my hair.
my dead brother says
“the road is
long…
… where it takes you is up to you”
and so, i look beyond the sky.
and such a beautiful sky it is today too!
’tis the bluest i’ve seen it.
’tis no wonder we are fools
for unicorns, rarely found
in my backyard.
a yellow taxi takes me to
the farside
of the city.
it is not a city
for angels…
it is a movie set
at the bottom of a pool.
this is where i see things clearer
but now,
i will write you 7 letters: M, S, Q, R, V, X, J.
i have a yellow lamp
for a blue room, for a blue-eyed girl
i want to love
(and love i do) like
noone has ever loved
before.
“the soul remembers the beauty it
used to know in heaven”, said the blue whale
and i
believe him.
he too has been lost in
this city of lost dreams
and pearls; of
pills and girls and
casting couches; of
wormholes, magazines
and vouchers.
you sleep too long
and deep, my friend.
beneath these skies
beneath the ripples.
you left your
left palm upon my right nipple,
desire.
desire.
desire.
like the fire
of a thousand stars or suns.
the smoking angel turns to me and runs
away with my heart and mind
“we are not leading the lives
we were meant for…”
he screams, hysterically.
what of Fate, and free will?
the Romanian holds my hand and
draws blood from my heart line.
the cut is deep.
the blood, it seeps red
for… we never knew which way to go
even although i held a string of shells
around my
neck, but i will write
your name in the sand with
a feather.
you lay on your back and gaze up
at the neon and skyscrapers.
two old men, twins,
play chess
in the middle of The Avenue of The Americas.
the tidal wave
rises,
soaring,
racing… fast towards us.
please, stick needles in my eyes to
wake me from
this strange
dream.
from the old brown couch
my eyes chase light up
through the skylight.
i think of my dead brother
i never knew him,
well… not in this world.
i punch a hole
in the wall.
these empty offices leave
their windows open.
the wind in the windows
scatters the stack
of papers,
that was my book.
[fuck it.]
“take another swig of whisky, Kat.”
the angel says, returning like a tide
he plays upon a broken harp.
it is a sorrowful song,
an elegy for the blind
and bare.
as i climb the staircase,
outside and upside
down.
the lights in your eyes
switch on.
champagne is a dirty trick.
it leaves you with two whores in your bed
and a headache.
i dive into the
paddling
pool beside
the man in the blue suit.
he’s been in this dream before.
his mouth is full of nonsense
that spills so i
take off my dress and
step in beneath the fountain.
white haired girls should
only ever wear white
or gold.
my hair is black and
covers my eyes,
like a veil
for a widow.
a mystery of mourning.
“good morning” you say
and wake my sleep.
i take your hand and we tango.
a glossy black stallion strikes
his hoof in sparks
like the fire
in our eyes
“we are alive.” i breathe.
having never been
to Sarajevo, i figured
there are too many places i
have yet to be, but
for now it is nice to dance
with you on the lawn,
at dawn and watch
the sun and moon share
the sky’s velvet for
a little while.
but thinking is best done
underwater.
where thoughts are dissolved
the soul, absolved.
you sing in the morning and i
love how your voice has
the power to blow
leaves
from my mind and pathways.
you cut the gangenous from my life
and limb
you, the amputator,
me, the somnambulator.
sleep-walking
and walking head first
into a brick wall.
the ‘you + me’
is the best remedy,
when i am afraid.
you push away the fear.
you take me to a vast
expanse of  beach
it seems life’s rich bitch
cannot survive here on nothing.
it is just the two of us
and this infinite space
to play
and breathe
and be
and love.
“you are the love of my life, have i told you this?”
i have sunbathed on runways and railtracks
and i have tried to swim
in the pool of hot wax.
looking for answers
but with you, my fear
of the dark has gone.
footsteps echo in the marble hall
as the Romanian stumbles
breaking her
stiletto.
you break her fall.
“fuck me” she begs,
pulling at you with
moth-eaten hands
and bitten nails.
blond and bland
i tie her tongue
with rubber bands-
i don’t want to hear what she has to say.
she pulls your face
between her legs
and begs
“phmmuckk mi”
“mock you?” you mock
“fuck you?”
“FUCK YOU!”
i smash her head
unto the floor
it cracks like a fallen vase
upon the tiles
and the bile, it gathers
up in my throat.
the skull cracks
the sound smacks; and her blood
thick and slick and sticky
like the wet on your face.
how could she disgrace me,
or try ‘second place’ me.
so i spit on her.
i piss on her.
i piss in her mouth
that notorious mouth that once
was a carnival; her crooked teeth
like the broken pearl
beneath my feet.
i slip off my shoes…
i step into the blood
and leave footprints down her twisted spine
and i pirouette upon her.
you applaud, on bended knee, and
beckon me
to follow you through the yellow door.
behind this door, lies a garden where
we used to lie and sip
wine of plum and leather;
where bees tickle
the skin of shin,
soft, “can we go back there?” i ask
“can we come together and never peel apart?”
“can we sit together and whisper
to each other poems, like the lovers we were always meant to be?”
this hawk has a broken wing
and needs to fly.
it may heal in time.
white curtains blow and billow
i rock backwards and forwards, like the tide.
moving but going nowhere.
we need bicycles for Sylt.
but right now, all i have is a dripping tap.
my mind, a speeding car;
a bullet;
a whip;
Fake Canadian Dave says:
“nobody cares about reality anymore”
and i don’t disbelieve him.
beneath the blue light
and above the running water, we run
a man with no arms sits
at a grand piano.
it is a dark music that he plays
as he sways, from side to side,
like a pendulum or
metronome
as the trees advance,
towards us
doing their strange little dance
– this is all so absurd…


(c) Kat McDonald 2016

image: (c) Kat McDonald Photography

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9 thoughts on “reversal of a dream

    • or listening to, in this instance… did you hear both parts? they’re both on our Soundcloud/ bandcamp sites – you can download both parts from Bandcamp for free, if you like. x and you can follow Pilgrims on wordpress too!

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