i need to speak
i dreamed of a red, red car that toppled and turned and rolled and toppled
from a distance it seemed so small
it rolled and rolled over hills and dales
the sun kept shining at last it came to rest
in the hospital corridor quite still
next to the pulpit i smelled the essence
of my grandmother there
her cool dim house with smells of fabrics of sun
and the snipclicksnipclick of cutting smoothly
on the oval table a hollow pleasant sound
of wood chimes and scissors
wood chimes
but i stray -
the coffin red right at the foot of the pulpit contained my torso
and my hair drawn on my head in brown wax crayon
and the coffin the coffin lined in white enamel is so smooth
it looks like a brand new ball
its lid to be lifted like that of a cooking pot -
what does this mean, bismarck?
how could a car become a pot even in a dream?
seasofme290216parallaxis
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if olan is right, nothing is actually surreal.
YOU ARE READING
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Poesíamy personal favourites in one book. these all come from older collections. hardly any of the media belong to me
