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Geoff Stevens

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Night mares

Day is fading into night, reality into whimsy;
you see a cat-masked friend negotiating on your behalf
with the head and shoulders bust of a golden-maned goddess,
whilst coralled in another part of your sleeping skull,
women stooping like white horses are so plentiful.
Yet you run about like a flaming giraffe,
your desire with its rampant neck on fire
and the decision needing to be made to where to extinguish it.
And all the moments that you waste pondering,
time is pulling off one and then another of your wings,
effectively reducing the choice of your butterfly-flights of
                                                                                        fancy;
some of the horse women already have riders,
and the busty goddess is breast feeding your cat.
This whole dream is becoming a nightmare of the flesh,
a series of ideas for a surreal painting by Salvador Dali.
Why does your sleep feed so much on your daytime
repressions?

 

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