dry

I dream of you in my aunty's house. it was her birthday yesterday and you are living in the tv room. we used to pile in there on sleepy afternoons, a dozen cousins and my older brother. I was the youngest of the lot, sitting on the end of someone's knees. we'd watch long movies I didn't understand and I'd frustrate them with my questions. in your domain the couch has been relinquished for your bed. it's nighttime and you are stretching on the floor. I'm looking for my drawings on the walls. we have somewhere to be but don't end up leaving the room. when you join me on the bed you tell me that my lips are dry. I think it's because you don't kiss them anymore.

room for more

in a hotel in my dream waiting for friends from another life. together we once haunted the crumbling remains of another in a sleepy bonfire town. worlds away and years ago. I remember grieving the home we made of strangers and the clouds, momentary orphans playing family for a few months. in the year that followed I would cry every other day. I missed my friends and couldn't fathom moving forward having built our little life and home together. now we live as different people passing time in different places.

without forgetting I have learned to miss and still make room for more to come. in taking every joy time still has the grace to give me space to change and move like water. shapes shift beyond my power with the seasons as they roll. new flowers follow. I never saw you coming, just as I would never close the door. I miss you like my openness for now. I'll make room for more with time.

in a summer dress

in my dream I'm passing through my hometown in a summer dress. I've not done this before and would I want to would know better than to do so on the island. with fewer people fewer hearts and eyes are open to the world beyond and other ways of doing things. but I don't know better in my dream.

the dress is bright and billows in the wind as I brave the gauntlet through the city. toyed with serendipity almost every passing stranger wears a face I know. those that aren't closed minds that built my closet are ghosts that loved me til they didn't. despite the recognition in their eyes no words are spoken. some sneer or shake their heads. others look away. no one stops to say hello.

in the morning I am tired and my wing stings more than yesterday. with the blinds down the room is dark and I could maybe sleep forever. my questions sit in tidy piles beside our rings. I miss your voice and don't know anything.

my subconscious takes me shopping

whilst I sleep my subconscious takes me shopping. at the supermarket I search for my breakfast cereal but the aisles all seem a little confused. no shelves carry any kind of order, though they're all overflowing from the ceiling to the floor. some passages and aisles seem to fade in and out of render with my approach. each door is flagged by staff waving giant blue hands. they all wear vacant smiles with teeth. I don't quite understand this simulation. unable to find anything I need I can't help feeling like a misplaced child and far too scared to ask for help. arriving at the checkout empty-handed I want to leave although I came in for a reason. if only I remembered.

I wake to the sound of a new day a little too loud on the phone by the bed. the sun waits behind the blind in a line on the floor.

waiting for brambletyne

before I wake we're hiding from the rain under an awning on the doorstep of a hotel. we came here to listen to an author once. your dad is with us incognito (without his guitar) and I can't tell if we're kids again but we're waiting for a poetry reading from our favourite of his bandmates. Murray Street runs a river against traffic shooting for the green light out of town. across the road your brother emerges from the arch of the cathedral by the financial planners. he waves and manages to reach us dry.

the sky cries louder. your father yawns and leaves to take a smoke. in his absence your brother bets you can't beat him down to Collins and back. I hold your coat and watch you run into the rain. he's bigger and faster and I want you to win.

some dreams disappear

some nights are for sleep. some nights are for dreaming. some dreams disappear though some are worth keeping. in the morning we ask and tell each other all about the ones we want to and remember. you tell yours with excitement and precision, like adventures from a children's book of cautionary tales. I tell mine vague like clouds, only able to recall the general shapes and movements as they pass into the morning.

without you I dream of plagues and monsters I can only run so far from. the nightmares scare me back to limbo in the darkness between bedtime and another dawn. I reach for former friends and family through endless airport terminals and cyclones. running from a madman that can only be my future I lose all sense to Christmas on the beach. the songs sound alien and I want to go home.

on my phone you ask how I slept. without wanting to worry I tell you I woke a few times from nightmares. you say that's very troubling but dreams aren't real (although we are). I pinch myself and know you're wrong. if only you could see this something / your spell through my eyes.

the ceiling starts to rain

somewhere between tomorrow and my vat of swimming memories I find myself under stage lights for the finale of a musical or opera. though I seem to know my cues and movements I don't remember how it's going to end. the whole ensemble dons long robes flowing heavy with the movement of our limbs. they cover almost every inch of skin below the neck. a dramatic score rumbles from the pit to conjure spirits or the fall of man; a friend nudges me to move upstage to catch my stone. with the looming brass crescendo the ceiling starts to rain rocks: pebbles precede bigger bricks of granite threatening much worse than scratches or bruises on unexpectant eyes. my rock is heavy and nearly sinks me with my knuckles to the floor.

an invisible audience spectates. I hear their gasps in shock as we the players struggle with our falling sky. some of us miss our moment and cannot find our marks. I watch bigger stones and boulders land on heads and shoulders. a chorus of chanting gives way to screams clawing to release the sudden pain of injury and anger. the rocks keep falling. the players start to join them stagnant on the stage and I lose my war against the urge to fly out into the dark. leaping offstage I run through the audience, none of whom can look away from such captivating theatre. the foyer folds into a similarly neon-lit supermarket I don't know but crave escape from into the night. once familiar discopop grates through overhead speakers against my ears to the stomp and howl of some other monster in the labyrinth that cannot help but take my money.

when I escape the minotaur the night is cold and I need to find my way home. passing by the creek instead of bed I wind up looking for a fish. between what I want and what I need I find an ingénue from home knelt at the foot of the stream. her once blonde hair died a dark dirt brown splays a pool around her figure as she talks to the river. I sense there's magic in her gaze and rush away to not be cursed. on the way I hear the water dancing softly to her spells. I wake before I find you.

the theatre after death

in my dream dream I wake at 2 am to sterile sunshine streaming through lounge room window. a housemate lies horizontal on the couch a mask covers his eyes headphones in singing himself lullabies. the sky must have fallen whilst I slept. the world outside the house is silent like the theatre after death. not even the trams can be heard. am I the first to wake to see that night’s been stolen? I sit on my bed wondering what to do about the fall. without the stars without the dark how can I ever reach the moon? I think about the tides and hope they’re going to be okay.