well… you know what i mean. you know
what all this means. & you know i
dreamt you said that. why you even followed it
with ‘no, rather than coming to terms with myself,
i (for one) consciously try to move
in the opposite direction’.
a sentiment quite like you
but the grin, perverse. then
i remember: we don’t dream at all.
not now. amongst other things
i’m constantly busy fearing the present
will chase us down, will end up out there looming
toying with people. bodies
i used to call friends. just to get me.
an appealing regressive logic. whisper
in my ear ‘how melodramatic’.
how ‘made up’.
oh shoot. once done twisting the time
like some twenty dollar ious
from a tracksuit, we always leave.
why ponder. all possible worlds are
getting tearful. tracksuits dance
while alone, giggling
under an arched window’s blood moon,
cracking off the layers
like russian dolls. it is good
for all concerned we miss
our driving is unromantic.
haggling goes on nonetheless,
firstly & usually over split pineapples / principles
& then beer, why not. the dealer
round every corner
— he’s a jovial type, we scout him
& play at wit, while we watch
like death & bet farcically
on household bottle brand names.
the granules within will sit simply. secreted
from pockets. it’s automatic.
when you’ve done this
in several different towns,
love waiting but not for you,
chewing in another bright hotel,
you learn the generalisations that hold.
maybe the tourist signs
that underestimate population;
always the town motto scarcely provable.
all is fun i guess & secondly
i’m coming to terms with my anaesthesia,
even if it is you coming to terms, with this.
i wave to people driving
while you sleep, but only in cars
the same make & model as ours. going
in opposite directions, lights swelling,
they look like her. behind us & static: you.