What is the day? The hour? This weariness is beyond responsibility. I know that I am, but what am I? It is a labour; a journey; a soul shifted. Souls shifted. I must remember that. We came newly adjoined. And wide-eyed. With fear. Excitement. Holding hands tighter than we might. Who are you? What is this place? I’m too hot.
This was a dream: I know this now. The sticky-skinned laughter. The sick, blackened cords stretched and snapped to home. The webcams from the Mersey at midnight showing a Liverpool sunrise. Why? Where am I? It is a dream; an ambition; a magic sun. A magic sun. Think about that. We found things, strange. And familiar-skewed. With sweat. Exhaustion. Sunglasses rammed on faces to redden the night. Too much. And the pool? Reptile-shit-warm. Air-con life.
And it goes, it happens. Time, I mean. All kinds of ripples. I looked at my feet. There was sand. The white sand. The ridiculous postcard azure. The perfection. A beach I had no entitlement to be off. The grains ground and serrated and caressed. Work finished. I don’t miss it. It was me and it, I, still feel unreal. Whose feet? Whose land? The rum’s lovely.
Dreams: things you wake from. Imagination-flickering-derangement. Sand is still in my shoes. But the form is lost. Aeroplanes=airplanes. Sidewalks. Sliders. Parking lots. Cha-cha. Home? 24 hours and a world away. Home? Here? Maybe. But, oh, it’s hurricane season. Look, there’s Africa. That’s a blob. Watch it, watch, it, watch it.
And all that is familiar was familiar means familiar is shattered and put back together with chewing gum with shards swapped so faces are at knee level with an eye and a redface in a navel and life is falling and flattened and we are cubist versions of ourselves.
Was it four years? Nearly so? This strangeness is beyond comprehensibility. I know that we were, but where were we? It was an image in 3D; conceptions cracked. Concepts cracked. I must understand that. We left, still adjoined. And baggy-eyed. With weird. Exhaustion. Clutching luggage heavy with hindsight. What was that? Where are we next? I’m too hot.
More than a dream: perhaps, per-how. The sickly-morning hangover. The limp, slackened haunches tubby and oozing and foam. The deckhands, ropes and fade-sun-hatted white-flowing insipid-cool bunfights, skies, stares. Am I explaining the dream? The position? The frantic sun? The frantic sun. Sinking too fast. To ground, out of range. Green-blue flashing hues. And yet. In motion. Erratic, random races to heaven, in flight, or touch. One more mall. Facile, flit, fawn. Neo-con life.
And it goes, it happens. Time, I mean. All kinds of ripples. Again, at my feet there was sand, the right sand, the preposterous TV allure. In directions of reach I had no incentive to be. Rough remains around, homesick, grated and depressed. What’s in it? I don’t know it. I looked and I lied. Yes, I feel those feet, that land, that rum journey.
Dreams: why wake up? From imagination-flickering derangement, sand still in my shoes? Nothing ventured is lost. Airplanes=aeroplanes. Why talk, riders? Mark your slot, will ya? Home? 24 hours ain’t a world away. Home? Here? Baby, not only a worrying treason: fuck-shared frequent flobs catch it, catch it, catch it.
And then, that was within; year of faring of sea-flung years now splattered and squashed back together with glue and scum with words smacked so places are at the level of a sky and a latte and a turtle, and memories shout out and warble and we are back, back in a hologram that never happened.
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