The Sapphire I’d Dream and Sheep



“The Sapphire I’d Dream and Sheep”

The Sapphire I’d dreamed
shone down on me
from a mirror testing oculist 
pretending to be a Blue-Sky fantasy. 

“Cataracts”, He said, “they’re turning into Moonstones.”

I was dreamin’ again 
in emerald fields of green perpendicular philosophy
venturing into other deeper dimensions beyond 360 -
Sheep pouring in all around me -
Soft marshmallows full of fluff, baa’haa’ing just like each other 
in Ekphrastic purple prose melting kaleidoscope colours 
with words and thoughts stolen from the original source, 
their froth oozing out of silent mouths gaping long and loud like their fellow herds
burning their steps like brand marks running black keys flying 
across the plain white clouds like vacant pages waiting for something, 
like vanilla ice cream melting, sprinkling idylls here and there, painting
hundreds and thousand words dressed like worn out trophies hung up on walls
shelving their minds into obedient scrolls nothing more; 
who could blame them for venting and deliciously espousing, they were only human after all, 
their cup runneth over, where else was it to be spent, their silent removal from life, bit by bit - 
call it their glorious and divine opportunity, creatively speaking they were on a lucky streak - 
they gathered here hero-worshipping each other placing words on each others tongues 
like holy sacraments - 
Communion.
Their prose juiced up spreading plump like grapes opened wide on a vine 
plucking stories from memories, the savoring of stolen alter wine 
prepared and blessed like Puck handing violate poésies crushed 
like a spell-bound tincture handed to Lysander for the absent one's cup 
the lips tight, the smile squeezed juicily open under bare unblessed feet, 
their drunken footsteps stained worlds away in a fresh dream,
overcompensating, the too intoxicating neediness contradicting independence
yet numbing the dark dangling damsons holding onto their heads by a thread
and by now the trophies grounded all the same-same abound, unoriginal,
the bug eyed quietly mewling the bespoke woolly attempting to decipher the unclear, 
triggering tripwires along the highwire tongues of livewires that do not speak, 
their minds opened like atrocious seers, sensationally original and horribly sincere. 

Silently the jaded Moonstones clear 
and through the treacherous fog of the mind, 
summoning of automatic writing begins the beguine
steering Sagittarius arrows drawn for cupid followers 
bypassing their dopamine demons waiting for strict angels 
like a Chief Whip of some shining ilk, a lion lineage to appear.

“For real?” I responded, all Alice, in my dream, “Cataracts?”
“But this life is idle poetry, we live within the fantasy of delusions
only mirages and hallucinations live in here, it is nought for real.
Nothing good ever comes from over-virtuosity 
or a mind full of it’s-a-wonderful-life ideals.”

“What need for second sight?”, the Ethereal responds, 
“Trust me”. 

“Hush hush!” I say, “No need to speak -
here in the Casino, the polling croupiers always deal”. 

The Jade mirrors reflect like twins, the azzure-blue 
of untimely unjust things stating abruptly, and off-key -

“I am so not playing Blackjack 21 again.
I’m not in this for the bends, only for the cerebral feels.”

I lay my chip on Red. 
The number is odd 
for completions and begin-agains. 

The Sapphire I’d dream 
grins like a Cheshire Cat, 
“Call it.” the Cat demands, and the World spins.

The Sheep move closer in.


Candide Diderot. ’26 



“Hopelessly passing your time in the grassland away
Only dimly aware of a certain unease in the air
You better watch out
There may be dogs about
I've looked over Jordan, and I have seen
Things are not what they seem
What do you get for pretending the danger's not real
Meek and obedient you follow the leader
Down well-trodden corridors into the valley of steel
What a surprise
The look of terminal shock in your eyes
Now things are really what they seem
No, this is no bad dream…” 
(excerpt lyrics, “Sheep”/Pink Floyd) 



“The lunatic is on the grass
The lunatic is on the grass
Remembering games and daisy chains and laughs
Got to keep the loonies on the path

The lunatic is in the hall
The lunatics are in my hall
The paper holds their folded faces to the floor
And every day the paper boy brings more …”
(excerpt lyrics, “Brain Damage”/Pink Floyd)

dreammusenarrative

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