the art of dreams

stretched out and thin,
stretched out and thin;
balloon skin of monotony

stretched taut over a mass of emptiness.

if i could be anything i wanted to be, i would be an artist sitting along bridges in europe, palletting the soft hues of sunset, the bustle of paved streets, the gray scent of rain, the naivete of colourful sweet shops, the scarlet red of Dorothy's clackity-shoes. i would doodle abstractedly and dream dreams. dream day into night, and night into day.

snippet:
to the man slouching in the corner, warily eyeing people file out of the mrt gates

i saw him staring, him oblivious
to the discomfort produced in me,
by his drapery of distaste,
as they rushed out in haste.

he looked as though
there was something else to expect,
something other amiss.
as though the gates would be a fist,

or a fork, clamping-hard-jaws
banging down. hard. sudden.
on unsuspecting dancers whose long
fancy dress hem got stepped on, torn.

a falling backwards, in distrust of the gate,
a pushing forwards, in ignorance of the mate;
then in tandem with the millieu behind
and before, i rushed through as its perilous bait.


if i had a shop to call my own, i would name it mollify/ enigma/ penchant/ parablet/ sultrysunday/ sultanas/ lilliputian/ terrapin/ mouthpiece/ bamboozle/ teacosy/ lifequilt/ plaits/ felicityfowl/ felt/