The bazaar

Dreams that make your body pop, force the show to stop, let your jaw drop and breathe them in,

my dreams are kept in a biscuit tin
and hidden in the wardrobe.

File that under miscellaneous or under the skin, subcutaneous, any information unsought, bought, is probably extraneous and that’s enough of us,

It’s bedtime in the suburbs, the adverts have taken the lead, the dog’s flopped into his basket after having a bloody good feed,

About now I’ll jump ship, skip the light fantastic,
I could dream of her knicker elastic, but they don’t make that anymore
(actually they might do but what would I know?)

Friday is on the horizon
but it’ll never come for those who believe that
the earth is flat.
or maybe it’ll just fall into them.

© 2017, John Smallshaw.