dreams

so many weird dreams
that mean nothing at all
to anyone but me

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Notes:

1. Written on 29th January, 2019

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The Dream

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Notes:

1. Written 22nd July, 2015

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market stall

I went to the market that they have in the car park behind the high street every thursday and there was a stall there selling cups of piss. I said to the woman running the stall, “Is that really piss?” and she said, “Yes, lovely warm piss. Only £3 a glass,” and I said, “But why would I want to drink a cup of piss?” and she said, “It’s warm piss,” and I said, “I don’t know what difference that makes,” and she said, or sort of sung, “It will grant you your wish / this cup of warm piss,” and I said, “what sort of wish” and she said, “the wish for piss” and I said, “that’s not a wish,” and she bent down and picked up one of the cups and held it out towards me and said, “try it it’s free” and I said, “I thought you said it cost £3,” and she said “this is a trial offer” and I said, “I better still get my wish” and she winked at me and said “the wish for piss” again and I shrugged and closed my eyes and grimaced pre-emptively and downed that cup of piss and wiped my lips clean with the back of my arm and opened my eyes and looked down at the cups of piss and I said “thank you” and she nodded and I said “have a nice day” and she said “and you” and I went back into town and I decided right then or at least by the end of the day that I’d go to the market next week and get another cup assuming the stall’s back again and if she hasn’t sold out by the time I get there

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Notes:

1. Written on June 30th, 2016
2. And basically a direct transcript of a dream I’d had that morning/the previous night

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night time

I woke up in the middle of the night and there was this skeleton outside, tapping at my window, tapping and tapping incessantly with its long bony finger while the rest of its entirely improbable being just stood there motionless, its feet in mother’s fuschias, each bone held perfectly in place by whatever force it is that maintains their coherence, the whole spectre stained red as blood under the streetlights’ glare.

I tapped back and it tapped back and then it tapped some more and then some more and went on tapping for quite some time.

It was fairly annoying.

It was 3 am.

I tapped back again to see if it would stop but it didn’t stop and I wondered if it was all some Poe-esque torture designed to make me collapse to me knees and confess my sins, but in the end I decided it probably wasn’t, and that it was more likely that, considering the skeleton had no eyes or eardrums or even a brain, it simply hadn’t heard me or seen me or perceived my existence in any way at all. Or at least not in anyway I could understand.

Also I didn’t have any sins to confess, except I suppose for the sin of gluttony, but I’m not sure that’s even really considered a sin anymore, rather than the necessary duty of every citizen, for if we don’t do all we can to maintain the steady expansion of the capitalist balloon on and on for ever and ever without end until even the infinite has been consumed then where would be? In some arid post-apocalyptic tesco-less waste land, no doubt, like I’d always dreamt about, like I’d always wanted, staggering about all alone under a wan unblemished sky.

Maybe that is my sin.

Maybe this is my confession.

The skeleton tapped on and on. I went back to bed and dreamt of clocks and death.

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Notes:

1. This was written on the 26th June, 2018
2. It’s been hot this week and I cannot sleep

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