I dream that I wake up screaming in Wigan, kicking at the stagnant pier waters/that napalm is good for the constitution/of guilt, of rain-sodden guilt that pools around my feet/of scaffolding growing like mould across the faces of buildings/of empty shopping centres and retail parks with vines breaking the paving stones in two/of an island shrinking and shrinking and superman turning away in disgust/of standing in a queue for the jobcentre plus until I have to vomit from gratitude and hunger/of fun office spaces with modern cubicles and slides/of walk in baths and disabled showers and crippled crow children with enthusiastic exclamation marks in their every hiss and growl/of a ship made from the bones of wreckage/and did no one ever tell you we’re melting the ground we’re standing on?

I dream of men and women covered in scales and clinging to the undersides of rocks in the ocean/of ghosts making their homes in the dead ships breathing with their golden decay/of cannonballs held in place and perpetually spinning to birth a new Katrina/I dream of Tom Waits cackling around his cigarette whilst Iggy Pop cuts his chest with a stolen razorblade and Sid Vicious snorts butter in the corner of Fats Domino’s car/of Buddha licking his lips and watching his monks kick Darwin to death/of Ayn Rand fucking Marx with a strap on from AO.com/ of Christ sticking his fingers in a flesh spear hole and pulling the lips apart and music falling out like a nosebleed.

I dream of Margaret Thatcher in a red dress, cut to the calves/of calling my coworkers cunts to their faces/ of waking up on the couch to remember writing Nausea on my forearm in a black marker pen/of the advertising industry boasting a broken window to the world and of cutting my fingers to wipe the damage away.

I dream of a half-naked Scottish girl with accented pale-wreathed thighs laughing beneath water-hung trees above tree-littered waterways – and shins shiver in knee-length chill vibrations disturb ducklings metres away which squawk in trembling fear for mother cutting across the rippled surface. I dream of red-orange speckles which race and vanish into the liquid like lies, and I’d like to chase them to their spring, but she won’t want my wetted web paws on her skin with fingerless gloves coming apart between the holes where the fingers should go. I dream that she’s not so innocent, and I imagine Innocento Est Delenda tattooed on her forearm, but I lick it over and I can’t see it anywhere and maybe I should get Carthago over the pulse of my throat and smile mysteriously when asked about it – I wonder if she’d ask about it, her and her Scottish legs culling the water.

And I dream that everything tells a story; if you like stories. That every story is a song; if you like songs.

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