The (serial) invaders

The night sneaks off and your brain kicks in,
the eyes begin to flutter and
the light begins to spin.

Do you remember it?
The dream I mean,
the tossing and turning of desire when you’re wired to the bomb in your bed.

Shaking your head doesn’t cut it but it might be the hour of the day, okay
pour down a coffee.

And the image returns, the tossing and turns and that lady, who was she and
where did she come from,
how did she unlock the door to my dreams?

Coffee beans,
it’s the coffee beans or the cheese before midnight, mother once warned me that cheese gives you nightmares, but that was no nightmare when I stood there naked, half baked by the heat of the dream.

And the night is now gone, no one to question and I have no answers to give.

I live for the nightfall when the day drips away when the colours are muted and all a bit Monet and the dreams start to batter down the door of reality and really it’s not good at all.

© 2015, John Smallshaw.