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“Upon Waking” Slumber has its upsides while the outside runs around like a split fowlyard, cacophonous pecking at each other and at the ground… Elsewhere, like dull background noise through the fog of dream the sound of the gamble and its slot machines discordantly admitting The Others through the turnstiles; The Sleeper has assignations with higher things, all around - all around – one could consider the whole gambit a stroke of good luck, this, largesse to revisit higher things who have passed on to The Sleeper this Slumber, like a bestowed practice run for better things to come; On the Other Side the cat’s at the ever-ready soft pawed the feline considers The Sleeper's reflection, should The Sleeper turn on The Giant, go sit on its shoulder and pounce; Still vetted by Morpheus in that hidden foreign place - The Sleeper is kept, yet The Sleeper is free to run riot wherever the Sleeper pleases, The Sleeper runs on, through walls and through walls into Forever Night, this is the way of The Kept In-Between, Bardos have their pleasantries, unchecked to do what Sleepers please - The Sleeper converses with The Poets who speak through hands, and is advised automatically to beware, for The Sleeper is a new comer to this place of The Tower, it is a very different diaphonous land they tell The Sleeper in all manner of ways, that, The Sleeper is in the presence of Holy and Unholy things with The Invisible Heard-But-Not-Seen walking the corridors like The Defrocked - Poets, Popes, Red Cardinals, Bishops, their Kings and their Queens they travel in flocks, all aloof politicians lobbying, tilting tables, reading palms (sic) psalms and the automatic writing on walls The Shadows of Soldier spectrals stand guard at Gort, like Dark Knights holding the hands of The Forgotten Children, in sullied undignified Courts - all see themselves in the hollow-hung mirrors sometimes not so hallow and through the open windows of those travelling dreams like tourists, for a short while they are shocked, then astounded, they discover they are not kept at all, in fact, they are allowed the freedom to come and to go, to do as they please, for they are not locked into Heaven, nor Hell, so, they edit their meanings in words written on walls the messages boxed like bodies in Visitor Books they nourish themselves with like-minded spooks with tinctures revered like heady broth, they’ve been lost in their cups merrily and unmerrily for eternity, without evening knowing they were in fact not summoned by God but were summoned by Poets in poems haunting the halls of Thoor Ballylee The Sleeper glides effortlessly making The Sleeper's way up the turreted stairs to the inner sanctum, The Stranger’s Room to converse with what waits ... 'tis too late, The Sleeper awakes Candide Diderot. ‘24 “I dream of a Ledaean body, bent Above a sinking fire, a tale that she Told of a harsh reproof, or trivial event That changed some childish day to tragedy— Told, and it seemed that our two natures blent Into a sphere from youthful sympathy, Or else, to alter Plato's parable, Into the yolk and white of the one shell.” W.B.Y. “I am contented For I know that Quiet Wanderer And may find him or his friends Among the winds that clamour down the empty walled garden, Or play in the flooded stream; Or that at twilight by some old black water He may suddenly rise in green reed from an old stone bridge, Or be some passing woman’s harsh wild song.” W.B.Y. “My own mind is perfectly unprejudiced and impressible on the subject. I do not in the least pretend that such things are not. But … I have not yet met with any Ghost Story that was proved to me, or that had not the noticeable peculiarity in it—that the alteration of some slight circumstance would bring it within the range of common natural probabilities.” Charles Dickens (“Ghost Club: Yeats’s and Dickens’s Secret Society of Spirits”/The Paris Review, Peter Hoskin, October 31, 2017) “History repeats the old conceits The glib replies the same defeats Keep your finger on important issues With crocodile tears and a pocketful of tissues I'm just the oily slick On the windup world of the nervous tick In a very fashionable hovel I hang around dying to be tortured You'll never be alone in the bone orchard ... So in this almost empty gin palace Through a two-way looking glass You see your Alice ... I got a feeling I'm going to get a lot of grief Once this seemed so appealing Now I am beyond belief.” (extract: Beyond Belief/Elvis Costello)
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