Some nights, I can’t sleep so, I go out walking following the river in my discomfort and anxiety All too aware of where we’re heading winding towards that war no one can win
I pass bonfires of guitars funeral pyres of pianos strings all snapped Art must be rationed out, now There’s a faded memory of a song from long ago that hopeless refrain, lilts ‘these are our final days’
The cities seethe, swollen and diseased remnant governments siphon off our blood all the schools are barracks hospitals lick flames from every window Kids wear shrapnel like fast-food crowns landmines pop like party balloons Lorries scurry the broken masses from one smouldering ruin to the next
A hatred crackles between the people the rusted blade edge of civilisation I feel helpless and heartbroken panic surging behind closed eyelids As humanity divides the two sides meeting twice once in their compromise and again at the extremes
The river rushes ever higher the floodplain quickly vanishes I mourn the poetry of seasons the grave of tenderness is washed downstream I meet a woman, burying her daughter From an old matchbox, I offer her the thin stem of withered hope, I nurture she waters it with her tears
“These are, these truly are our final days”
When we reach the river’s end the night is at its darkest just then a thousand suns light up this fractured northern hemisphere
Waking in my bed I realise my dream But is all this hell still yet to come…?
Thanks for reading. Happy new year! Don’t have nightmares.
Acquainting myself with the moon trapped behind glass we’re exchanging glances And on my back a thousand heart-attacks roll past My fingers cross and uncross as she sleeps, so black back in the real world paid-up entirely on her subscription to actual reality
Might you return with a souvenir for me from the envious depths of endless peace perhaps a child or a patient nurse or some control with a button for reverse My fingers press that longed-for switch watch deeds recoil back into the body where I don’t turn that key don’t cross that threshold slipping backwards, contentedly from actual reality
Moonshine lights the shore as I drag the boat of all my swimming thoughts along a silver stretch of sand where all the land behind no longer matters a bowl of sea, insignificantly the only thing between the horizon and me but crossing is possible with the coins that you earn waking night after night and each mile is a measurement you take from actual reality
This father feeling takes over My child in a superposition only alive inside its mother between the hours of two and six AM a phantom haunting, stalking poised with talons drawn to fly this solipsistic me and drop him heavily back in the sticky city streets of actual reality…
Stuttering awake in the anxious hours when white noise no longer lets you sleep And in the mattress springs a crawling metronome some percussive heartbeat one thought then another one worry trailed by the next Did what was said make sense? was it understood will this be good enough impossible options improbable odds suddenly so awake in the anxious hours Don’t forget to breathe…
Stuttering awake in the anxious hours try to recall these words line by line whispered in the dark piece by piece fall back to sleep it’s peace upon peace and don’t forget to breathe…