Two things arrive at night: babies and cyclones

I’ve had a rush of psychic dreams in the last month or so. Okay, that’s just put you off but bear with me … The dreams have made things tricky in my day-to-day life: did I dream that parking ticket or do I really have one? Does my mate now think I’ve hacked her email account because my dream told me all about her life? And so on … Anyhow, useful sometimes, harmful at other times … this poem represents some of the dream reels, the dark wanders and the waking states in-between the various stories. For those of you over 30 (like me), I’ve borrowed from X-BOX terminology – feel free to cover your eyes.

The Real Dream

I shut the doors on the outside
but the outside is already in.

I’m low on ammo and health and scared,
ruled by Cancer, drowning in love,
insecurity and the moon.

(My horoscope, by the way,
says nothing on cancer
while promising something serious
with that someone
who’s bubbling beneath the surface.)

My brain pulls up anchor,
drifts from sleep into other people’s lives.
They say that I’m dreaming.
I say that I’m deeply where I belong
within the shambling files of your life.

Do you file me under ‘s’ or under ‘f’ for ‘night fears’?
Am I the one who lives upstairs
in your stunted desire?

You’re low on ammo and health and scared,
ruled by Saturn, fearing your babies,
hating their trusting eyes.

You shut the doors on the outside. Tonight,
the dingoes aren’t howling –
they’re crying.

And the ghosts continue
to wait for you
in the cotton moonlight,
the real dream.