I am not feeling particularly chipper this week, the news is terrible. I honestly could run away and live with The Culture, if they'd have me, if they were real. A post-want, pan galactic society, sounds very attractive as we squander our last chance to limit the rise in greenhouse gasses and we murder people for territorial gain.
Enough! Here's a poem about a dream.
trying on dream clothes
that of course always fit well
and are tailored to perfection
I talked jazz with the assistant
there are worse ways to pass a night
than buying threads
but you wake
unsatisfied with your tactile wardrobe
no matter how hard you try
on successive nights
the tailors shop eludes you
in that vast city inside your head
Not much to say about it, save that the clothes were very comfortable and well tailored. Threads is old slang for clothes. Here's a rewrite. You can read the previous drafts here and here.
the waiting room
lung wrecked in the wing back chair
my father was marooned in his house
he rewatched the programmes
he did not like the first time round
told me that there was a certain
safety in knowing what comes next
his neural pathways began to short circuit
left in him sleeping an assisted sleep
that brief whisper of exhalation
follows each creaking inhalation
until it is time to cast off
to sail outward into the deep
I think it's finally there. Thanks must go to the Secret Poets for their amazing feedback and the suggestion of moving the stanzas about. There is a quiet satisfaction at arriving at the final draft [and a title].
Speaking of jazz, as I was in my dream, here's Emma Rawicz. She's got an album out soon. Excellent music.
Until next time.
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