It’s melancholy lament,
in shifting shades of blue,
moon-white through the middle
and humming like a funny bone
drum symphony.
As your consciousness nestles,
fidgety in the armpit
and your mind drones on and on,
evading sleep like a ninja.
Chuckling mischievously
because those sheep
you started counting an hour ago
now have names, Mohawks, tattoos
and have split up into two rival
gang factions and are about to rumble
down by the Docks, somewhere…
in a place you have never been…
Somehow here’s your old school again,
well, a part of it anyway?
except when you turn this corner,
the corridor leads to Tesco’s,
except what it used to look like
back when you was just a boy…
There’s dice and pears and apples…
and playing the piano, carefully,
even though you never learnt…
And if you listen very quietly
you can just make out someone
slightly snoring… somewhere close by,
I’ll let you into a secret… it’s partly you.