From Jester To King LXXXV
By Simon Barget
And sometimes you dream. In dreams you shimmer and the dead are alive and speak their last words. And you go about the world neither looking nor not looking, met by innumerable ghosts, inside the fabric. How they exert a light pulling effect. The shapes of dreams are spirals or whirlpools, tasting like floss. There is no work in dreams, no effort, just a centre-point towards which you devolve, drawn into a dungeon. How you meet with people you never meet with. Who have no dwelling place, easy come easy go. Your caprices. Always running up a hill never–ending. Chasing, lagging behind. The air is soup and your legs are jelly. Out of breath, but why can’t you run, what’s the illusion? Why this child of your cousin’s brother having no skin? Why why why and the subtle confusion. Reaching out to strike, arms flailing. Never reaching the thing. In dreams, the gun is fired and the bullets will come at you. A moment to work out what’ll happen if they hit. In dreams you don’t outrun the snake since they come out of nothing. Lost never remembering. Wondering why here when you already did it. Always repeating the same thing. Where the ground gives way. Falling. Always falling, but sometimes flying and going too high. In dreams those times when all of us here in the same place, and the air is pregnant with your people. Literally everyone is there. And you see the face of the person coming right before you the lucidity of the skin and the wrinkles more clearly than when you’re awake just like a beacon. And what will happen if you miss your connection, where will you go, since you don’t have a home? Why didn’t you take something? But then all the things you find in your grandparents’ draws, the ten mobile phones, the rings you forgot about, how could you forget, the computers and hoarding them guarding them so that no one can take them, the things you never realise you had and the delight of discovery.