Very challenging, this week's journey on The Poetry Bus. Driven by the demon driver
Chiccoreal, I can't wait to see what the other passengers are up to!
First thoughts on Waking
First thoughts on waking up this morning? Same
as any other day, the same routine. Same
questions:"Time. What is?"
A metaphysical conundrum, that.
Far better brains than mine. Too early for.
Stay practical: "How long 'till morning cuppa time?
How long 'till I can shake a leg and make the brew?"
"Will bathroom visit wait 'till then?"
"Ought I be getting back to kip?"
"5.20 - ish..." that's "40 minutes - ish..." and then
a problematic "Yes... relax" before the final "Nope!"
But relaxation brings new issues in its train:
"What did I think of as I died last night?"
Another metaphysical whatever! Did
something find a resolution as I slept?
Some lines somehow composed, perhaps?
"Should I be writing something down?"
Give answers in reverse, last first, first last -
as it will be in Heaven, so we're told. So, "yes" and "yes".
They're fading fast. I'll write them down.
Not Wordsworth, granted, but you should have been around
when yesterday's conglomeration of odd words
did damage to the ears - no, preferably not!
Re-reading Ulysses last night for the third time - ah yes,
most lovely book of all books and most difficult to read -
did I not say how hedonist and masochist are met in me?
All masochists are hedonists, I've heard it said. Maybe...
Scrub that: I dropped off thinking: nightmares --
Mr Breen's, in point of fact, as told by Mrs B, in which
The Ace of Spades went walkabout and climbed the stairs --
though how, we are not told: might it have tiptoed, crept
or scrambled, flounced or strode? Joyce doesn't tell.
Slipped up, I'd say. Now me: deliberate,
the way I seed my sleepy mind with thoughts to influence --
to see if I can influence -- the course or content of my dreams.
Don't think I dreamed at all last night... I must have...
Can't remember. Inconclusive that, or what?
Instead, I am reminded of some childhood nightmares.
Still vivid, some. One in particular, a shop, quite bare,
save for a long, curved counter disappearing to infinity,
behind which stood my mother smiling her warm smile.
I walk up to the bar and peer across. I see
the floor is home to countless crocodiles, a mass
of scales and writhing legs and snapping teeth and jaws.
Crocodile shoes... Favourite songs I do not do,
but if I did, this one would be there too.
I cut my teeth on crocodile stiletto shoes.
All ended badly. Floods of tears.
You've guessed it now.
My old croc' shoes were crying too
Then Jimmy Nail revived it all. Maybe I'll try tonight
to seed my dreams with them.
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