Dust and stones between toes Lids open but eyes closed Heat makes sweat Sweat makes drops Drops dive noiseless Brain is cooking Inside and out Sitting room Room previously sat in Couch bleeding, rug writhing Ritual sacrifice for the cushions Chandelier above all Swaying without breeze Casting grinning shadows Fireplace bursts and gives birth Sooty, gown torn, she slithers Each finger a dagger crowns Climbing now, clambering up She splits belly, cleaves bone To slide tender digits in And wrap betwixt veins So she begins Playing flesh as if it were keys Melody pours out my nose Nasally at first, discordant Until my mouth falls open And the tune twists, turns To that of guttural sorrow Organs of mine How sweetly she worked Able to make song From that which ought not A nightmare, at the time, I thought Dream Witch, drenched in my gore Can you play me once more?
What made me think of this today I know not; this dream, feverish as it was. For a whole week I’d been running a temperature of 40.1°C (104°F for my American friends) and, being in the depths of end of year college projects, I had begrudgingly condemned myself to the bed, then the bath, then the shower — day-in day-out.
On night eight the above is what I’d dreamt, somewhere between three and four in the morning; unable to wake myself, or perhaps unwilling to — whatever stranglehold my subconscious had over me. And yet… the following day my fever had plateaued, gradually reducing to a more manageable 38°C.
Take from that what you will.
Auf Wiedersehen
AJ Carney 