Nested In Swollen Pillows, Night Time Drops A Silver Net Over My Cradle

When I close my eyes . . . imagination weaves webs of hallucinatory
Thread against a gallery of black.
Strings of colour busy around in silent noisiness.
Night passes over dreamers beds in a cloak of blackness,
Sowing phantom seeds in the soft bedding of my tired brain.
A bouquet of imaginings, dreams flower.
I see landscapes in my dreams,
Just a faint impression, so faint in slumberous vapor.
There is always a horizon line spanning from the
Peripheral and margins of my brain,
It hums in gray and constant vibration.
Dreams recede into fatigued hollow, deep in space.
Liquid forms are born from my minds sleepy shadows.
Making their entrance when I'm not looking.
And trees, there are always trees with bloody sap and twisted spines.
With root systems like serpents, writhing and knotting at the ugly base.
Twined limbs imploring to the sweeping clouds in atmospheric haze.
Cool waves of dull shade lap at my minds edge,
At the shores of irrational thought.
In an ethereal wash preoccupation dissolves into foamy hush.
Spoons walk in uniform with sugared nectarines in their arms,
I swim through my dream and reason thaws.
Sub conscious dilated, ready to receive my honeyed apparitions.
Woman with pools of face, stun harps made from eyelashes,
But I cannot hear their tune.
Blood drips into the spongy earth like lamenting tap dropping its cry.
Everything balances on something smaller than its size.
Swans bathe in the yoke from daffodils eggs.
A strange brother hood of umbrellas grow in an orchard where it never rains,
Then . . .

A butterfly, it always ends with a butterfly.
So small from a distance flying towards
Me in tiny orange beats.
Membranous wings closer and closer,
Unable to turn away, monstrous feelers and
Black gauze eyes as large as watermelons.
I cannot see. I cannot run.
I open my mouth to scream and its hideous fury eggs are deposited
Into my shrieking mouth.
Then it fly's away returning to its intended size.
I watch it vanish, my dream dissipates . . .
Dreams have shuffled back into surreal convoy to the abstractions of the night
Reality is quick upon my heels, quick to puncture visions.
The night has milked my imagination .
Everything has come from nothing.