Lost Vagueness

I dreamt a dog was walking a tight rope.
I followed it and found a boy made up like a conductor.
He had a lovely Scottish accent, not the scrating sort but trapped
like a frog or a bat, or a cricket.
His hair was dull like rubbing and his arms heavy as two tables.
Still, he sounded like silk, so I thought we might not snag.
We were dancing, girls with their skirts spread like poppies,
tipped like lit up lamps.
We were the slim trousered men, moustaches and hats and cigars,
we toffed them and talked about jazz as if it were women.
Naked to the waist in a tent behind the left stage we smelt the others breath and borrowed pomade from a blue bearded man in a green shirt with buttons like broken eyes.
We sung soprano like, on our way to the hip hop tent and then raised our arms high to the woman on stilts, bending our knees like asthmatics to avoid the crush.