Narcoleptic Daydream

You dress once again to these threads of cold rain
your trousers all stitched at the ankle
Shoes made of oil and the poor man’s toil
And a mask of filigree fibre
And the rat-a-tat-tat on your cerebral hat
shakes the nails from your iron lung free
pampered flesh far too weak to live the life of that freak
that you sometimes claim to be

You gulp down your chunks of prescription junk
That promise to take the edge off the world
Drink wine and complain at the state of the trains
While away days without treason or rhyme
and arrive at the end of the hand-me-down recipe
to find that you’ve run out of thyme

So you head for the hills on those bubblegum heels
Ears flapping in the eloquent breeze
that blows from the east and rattles your keys
While enticing your thoughts to agree
with the divine and seductive and deluded decree
that you are what your mirror reveals

But the mirror is bent by the culture of plunder
And cracked by the head of some goon
and to look and to see might cause you to stumble
Down the staircase of worries where the diligent crumble
Under the weight of the moon and the flowers that festoon
Your salubrious parlour of wonder.

August 2007

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