the sun burst forth
through the dappled art-deco glass
it separated into slightly moving motes
that played up n down the wall
ooh mr sleep
a purple vase held some small red flowers
the dust moved in the still room
the sky pressed against his windows
and clouds rolled restlessly thru his day
entirely free now
the moon still out there shining
a smile of complicity
a nod of the head
ooh mr sleep
dishevelled crumpled rumpled warm
deep breaths n stillness
a remote realm the back of beyond
some movements but slowly slowly
photographs of the deities with gaily painted frames
childrens paintings of mermaids n merpigs
a solemn line of ants
clothes strewn carelessly
ooh mr sleep
yesterday something was noticed missing
who dares steal sleeps thunder?
the moaning n bitching wind?
the groaning n pitching floorboards were still
in the air floated music
a song was playing in sleeps house
it was called forget your amnesia
no one there had ever heard it before
mrs sleep cries softly, eyes closed n quietly now
in the tears are reflected the shadow n the mirror
the bulging wardrobe full of secrets
no one must ever find
a sticker of a blue guitar
emblazoned with the house of sleep
the almost sound of sliding
suddenly everything is paused
the film burns
the tape is stretched
the moment never passes
the children would be horrified at all this
the room shrinks
its alright, little sleeps
theyre at a slumber party at the nods
the temperature has fallen
its unusually ordinary
a reprieve has been obtained
and a gift from olde father sleep
who can no longer visit them
a hat, upside down, full of empty heads
rubber skin and plastic apparatus
a holeless colander
knives with no edge
leftover teabreaks
kneeling big breasted elephant headed girl statuette
telephone rings but the number is silent
a calendar from an unused year
buddha descended in flames thru 3 frames
a white square filled with a blue circle on black wood
an occult diary
blurred margin of difference
mention of africa
memories from childhoods
green glass n the cruel death of a tiny grey frog
basket weaving, the smell of that wet cane
christmas when everyone was happy or sad
someone you loved a little once n then
cosy biscuit box memories
wrapped up in your hanky memories
brownpaperbag n rainyday memories
little lane ran away from our school
the birds attacked you on your bike
a train station but nobody alighting
a little shop with grimeremover n stainkiller
feel things turn nasty
the weather for a start
why cant things just stay like this?
thats what father sleep had said
now im beginning
to ask myself
the same question