The Dream

In the broken hours, when sleep is hesitant,
When dreams come thick and short
In these drowsy, wakeful moments,
My thoughts are staged.
A full cast and vibrant scenery,
My room my backdrop, throbbing in and out of focus.
The girl enters.
I recognise her frame,
She is as she is in cold consciousness,
At first.
But then, easing into shot,
Her eyes appear disturbed,
Coated with a crust of paint,
Talc skin sags, plied, pressed and pulled,
Mauled to slacking point.
Beneath the lids, hollow bags filled in with apricot paste,
Cracked by nature’s creases.
I see a cut under one eye- the mark of over-zealous grooming,
Blood melts down an arid cheek.
A Gasp! Hurried dabs blot the leak,
Paste re-applied,
The mask made complete.

The scene contorts, clears and re-opens
To a room with an over-sized television,
A vacant screen screaming for attention.
It hobbles closer, beginning to smother me,
I, standing still, strain under its weight,
Sharp edges dig into skin,
Prodding at bruised flesh.
Aching elbows long for release.
There’s nowhere to place it, a balancing act,
Cluttered objects slip beneath,
Soapy discs pushing up and over,
And side to side
My fingers, muscle-less prongs,
Are the only solid support.
I could be holding this forever.
An Atlas, Greek god of the technological age.
But instead of the weight of the world,
I have a Television set.