The Dismemberment

With a cry across the void
the by-pass rips itself
from the fabric of reality,
a tongued snake and evil omen
ripping the landscape apart with it.

Floating places, dismembered islands,
drift apart through clouds of snow.

In an old pastoral
children dressed as sheep or angels
sing to the stars in nursery rhymes.

Secret islands of elves float by.

People cry out in consternation.
“If I knew you existed I would have visited.
Come back, come back!”

Lands of stories follow to an orchestral march.

Down beneath,
the river remains in a deep ravine,
clashing up against rocks,
her sandstone bed
now forms banks of plummeting red.

Cars sink to the bottom unplugged.

The old dark failing eyes of the cotton mill
look up from its crumbling shell
like a dishevelled beetle
that does not want to be remembered.
It falls.

Great black holes appear
like forbidden levels in a video game.

In my flying toboggan,
my runaway rollercoaster car,
my life is in the hands that steer
through the fabric of this warped reality

plummeting downward

to make my stand on another level.

Preston Market, By-pass, GCV 021 - Copy

* Poem based on a CRAZY dream I had last night. I think it may have something to do with receiving a letter through the post (and this is during the expansion of a local stretch of Penwortham by-pass) from South Ribble Borough Council asking for feedback on plans to build a new stretch from Broad Oak Roundabout to Howick Cross. What’s the point in widening this bit of the by-pass if they’re planning to build another section to take the traffic elsewhere???


2 thoughts on “The Dismemberment

  1. Charlotte

    Yes very dreamlike, but the surrealism is clearly rendered and disturbingly powerful. Love the children dressed as sheep or angels as if for an Xmas play and the elves and their floating islands!!

  2. The spirits of those who used to live on the land Do seem to take shelter, if not reincarnated (theoretically), in the deep parts of the rivers and forests, perhaps dwelling with the Nixies and other Fey. The Vodoun practioners have a legend that all the Africans who died on the slave passage across the Atlantic dwell in an undersea land (i forget what the different traditions call this realm) and they honour their dead ancestors who drowned and died so cruelly. You seem very sensitive to the voices of these spirits there where you live and thus the bardic voice of their stories, told even in your “crazy dreams” translated into poetry. Blessings.

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