A stupid poem for a stupid dream

It started with a room.
A school gym, perhaps,
with something like a thick rug
on one wall, the fibres protruding
a few centimetres, stiff and
perpendicular to the ground.

There had been women in the room,
but they disappeared
behind doors in the wall.
I think they were acrobats,
maybe assassins, but
it’s somewhat unclear.

I climbed the wall as if I was
walking up a narrow, rocky track
until I neared the roof.
I hung by my fingers
until my grip weakened
and I dropped to the ground…

And found myself on a hill,
nothing but dirt and dry grass
and trees dead from drought
or bushfire. You were lying
by a cold fire, wrapped
in a blanket or a sack.

You looked up and said,
“You’ve come back.”
You hair had grown and
your skin was dusty and
I said you smelled like you
hadn’t washed your arse for a week.

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4 thoughts on “A stupid poem for a stupid dream

  1. I am both an acrobat….and an assassin…but, I wash my arse every day.

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