The dreams form a linear pattern like the coils of a rattlesnake
Each flowing into the next
Seamlessly
So seamlessly
I await the dénouement
Passive, powerless, pondering
But the secret unravels when it so fancies
And promptly sinks back into its lucid wakeful obscurity
The oneiric detective wakes and shakes his fists in frustration
The damned solution has slipped his grasp once again
Ain't that just always the case
Pathetically he rises and stares at the moon
His accusatory glare is understandably ignored
The moon and the night must have bigger fish to fry
Tending to insomniacs and whores and dark alley dwellers
Handing out gifts of poetic inspiration and pneumonia
Usually not upon request
The City
Is what he always dreamed of
Seventy stories of nothing separate him from the ground
Jagged spikes protrude from the earth and scrape the clouds
And inside their metallic shells the last workaholics of the day drag themselves away
To families that don't exist.
High up the wind swirls and rocks the tower
The pillar of modernity
But his vision is that of old yellowed photographs and noir classics
And melancholic nighttime diners and fedoras and shots of whisky
And soft saxophones and pianos
And creases in the face
Unable to solve the mystery that haunts him
He revisits old dreams
And the glass is his accomplice
His listener his consolation his silent obedient counselor
His partner in crime
As the City
Looms.
16/02/2010
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