Poem: A Tale of Two Dreamers


My love overflows –

Everyone is so sensitive, so

Wounded, so anxious at the present –

Arguments and implosions erupt at a

Moment’s notice. Why can’t we just be

Like the Jackdaws on their pylons, who

Know how to rest easy with their ceaseless

Electricity? But, I really don’t mind: give me

Words of war – give me words of peace –

And I will still convert them into spell-binding

Poetry – poetry that undermines the hang-

Man’s endeavour, before his noose your neck

Can sever. I caress your jewellery – but you

Are more precious to me than any jewel –

The sapphire I most wish to inspect, beneath

My obsidian lens – Oh, let this heart be

Cleansed! Let me feel beautiful – let me

Feel like a true messiah – not an unlovable

Pariah – who will suffer for every last

Heart beat. I have tried to admit defeat –

But, I am still beset by visions, sweet,

Of you as my wife, my bride – of

Leaning on a table, looking into

Your eyes, both of us waiting for

The food to arrive – but, you are

My food – the cornerstone of my

Blood-poisoning diet – and in

That slumber, unquiet, that Hangover

Of Ages, I consort and cavort with

Anarchists and Mages; with explosive

Experts who know how to wreak utter

Destruction, from the volatility of

Otherwise harmless ingredients.



But, isn’t Love like that?

You can take two people,

Who are otherwise agreeable –

Yet, whom, when combined, can

Almost kill one another with the

Strength of their passion. Just look

At Cupid; look at Kurukulla – look

At all the other raging Gods and

Goddesses of Love: they are depicted

With bows – with the tools of a hunter –

With hooks, and daggers, and weapons.

There’s is not a lifestyle of Venusian

Submission – but a codex of difficulty,

Struggle, and strife – and that is there

Life – for to be a lover, is to be a

Warrior, ever engaged in a punishing

Battle; in which you perseveringly

Fight off the undying hoards,

Of your endless, skeleton selves –

Those bony guardians of injustice

And pain, who try to prevent you

From being loving, giving, and selfless.

And I have tried to be selfless – to give

Up my self – to offer my body as a

Sacrifice, to appease the wrath my

Affection might inspire in you. Even

When at rest, I always feel that dagger

In my chest – a bleeding reminder – a

Haemorrhaging memento, that I cannot

Turn away, or ever forget; I am trying

Not to obsess– but the intensity of

My Virgoan-Aquarian vision demands

Me to study you with punctilious precision –

If my life were a University, and you

Were the subject, then I would already

Have my Doctoral, my PHD, that lets

The world know I’m qualified, to lecture

About you.



And what is the first lesson

Of that lecture? That I am in

Love with you – but, let me not

Define you by my love –

Let not my love be a definition,

A restriction, a prison system – but

A burning conviction, that your graciousness

Is sure to




But, I’m just a useless scholar –

A pompous, old, academician, who

Lectures on a subject he has studied

A good deal, but never witnessed

Firsthand. I’ve never even kissed you

On the lips, or walked through the

Streets with you, hand in hand. And

Yet, in my imaginal realm, we are

Ever busy – Surveyors of Infinity –

Who spend each joyous, rapturous

Moment, lifting up the petticoats

Of Reality.



But, World War III has started

Now, and we must both withdraw

To our bunkers – but, my bunker

Is not a small room, ensconced in

The Earth – my bunker is

The sky, the fields, the royalty

Of trees, the birds that fly, that

Give me the strength not to slit

My throat




But that is what happened

In my dreams. I had two dreams

At the tail-end of winter, that

Were to summarize the year

Ahead. In the first, I was being

Tortured by my best friend’s

Dad; who, binding me to a hospital

Bed, decided to tear off all my

Skin – a way to let the devil

Out – or let the devil in?

Once I escaped from the hospital,

I came out into the square of St.

Petersburg; men and women

Were wearing bullet-proof

Clothing with self-righteous

Aplomb, carrying AK47s, and

Automatic weapons, with which

They languidly declared their

Triumph. I joined in the adulation

Of this lazy, post-war crowd. But

My mind was not on war – I was looking

For you – for somebody I had not met

Before. All my comrades came out to

Greet me eagerly – yet, you were

The only being I really wished to see;

You shied away from me, and

Shunned me, and I had to beseech you

For the cause of your hostility, before

You would finally deign to talk. Once

You started, you did not stop –

You told me how we had been

Lover and mistress; brother and

Sister throughout many incalculable

Aeons – once we had traced it back

To its beginning, you changed your

Appearance, and you revealed yourself

As a Dakini – an alien – a black-skinned

Sky-farer, of which I was also a member –

A strange tale to tell, from a cold,

Bleak, December.



The second prophetic dream

Was far more traumatic:

I was with an old friend, being

Driven by him, in his recently

Acquired van. He drove me to

A dark warehouse that spanned the

Hillsides, where the people had gills,

And little children, en masse, were

Killed, killed, killed. We drove through

The forest of this dark warehouse hill,

And, like a psychopathic Virgil, my

Friend pointed out, with joy, with

Glee, every murdered child; every

Aborted atrocity. All those children

Were unclaimed, and people would

Come here just to see them maimed;

As though the death of a child were

A spectacle, a triumph, a joy, a

Game; a sacred hunt we should all

Delight in; and, through the tears, of

My enlightenment, in this hell of

Long arrears, my attention was

Drawn to a little, young boy, whose

Case I quickly identified as my own.

From murder he had been disowned –

Instead, he was honing his own private

Hell, in a pine tree, aloft from the

Others. In this eyrie, he

Was trying to uncover the secret

Of speech; the sacred source of his

Sadness – he felt trapped, imprisoned,

Restricted by his dermis; so, in a surgery of

Self-discovery, he was slicing off his skin –

Trying to let the devil out, or let

The devil in? Parchment by

Parchment; layer by layer – hoping

To cure the unconquerable riddle

With which his mind was totally

Diseased. Now, skinless and nude –

A little skeleton dude – he finally

Witnessed the cause of his sickness:

It was in his throat: that was his

Abhorrence; his unexpressed

Obstruction, that gave his pitchless

Suffering a note. He clawed at this throat,

At his defier of Law – sticking his

Skeleton hand down his skeletal

Jaw, trying to grasp the gold,

That opalescent soul, that

Crystallized into a pearl, he

Hoped would give him, the

Secret of speech, to unlock

Intimacy’s closed, closed




Have I not striven to do

The same? Have I not had

My skin filleted? And is not

The sepulchre of my massacred

Throat, the bed on which my love has

Lain? This is my futile hope –

To show you all that I am. I know I

Have been clammed. But I have extracted

The pearl, from my oyster’s throat,

And still strive to show you,

All that I am.



So, take this pearl –

The hard-won treasure of my throat –

And wear it on the necklace of your kisses

On this dungeon-master’s coat.

I had to go to Hell and back to get it;

So, I hope you won’t forget it,

When I leave it as The Last Will

And Testament

Of a dreamer in the nude.












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