Dreams – ‘Feeling’ in the Blustery Breeze

Last night, I had a dream. (it partly inspired this poem – Unfeeling in the Lands of Plenty)  I suppose in many regards it wasn’t a too unusual dream, well… not by my own, somewhat odd standards, anyway. Over the years I have become accustomed to falling asleep and entering the crazy land of my vivid dreams. I have written about them before.

So, for the past few nights I have been a little unsettled because of a cold I am currently battling through – I think I’ve got it on the back foot! Anyway, I awoke this morning with that all-familiar feeling of having a dream that means something, though sometimes the meaning is lost, and all I’m ultimately left with is a beautiful, vestigial glowing. Like the shimmering of the road surface on a hot and humid day, or the subtle effect that de-ja-vu has. It is warm, it flows around my body with a hurried vigour. And in that moment, as I let it flow through my soul, I wonder how I’ve ever lived without it – how I manage to live without feeling it in the real, waking world. It’s something that I crave. Something that in reality is completely unreachable.

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Former Oceans of Feeling

Wondering how all things work,

Down to the final twitch of a finger,

Under the eaves of all that surely grows.

Ivy clinging to the stone, an iron grip,

Never letting go…


Flowing wildly, like a river on Speed.

Milking the day; dawn to dusk.

Lazing, grazing, idling around.

Sweating amidst the thoughts of coming down.


Ideally, living from one to the next,

If only ideas could be lived in whole…


Caught in dreams of the girl with white hair.

Searching for feeling,

Here in the world – something that might compare.

Instead – taken as seen – pits, holes to hell.

Vestigial feelings

Serving no purpose under the new regime.


Yet, faces, they come and they go.

Apparitions, mirror images.

Fickle beings in their trendsetting-

In their never letting go…


Honestly, time doesn’t heal all,

Not the things that never happened,

Not all that was left behind in the fog of self-depreciation.

Time, what can one call time?

Relentless, garbled, lunacy…

Honestly, take me back to that tilted youth!

That insatiable insanity.


Longing for time to have

Nor a past, nor a future.

Tangles of yearning, incomparable being.

Edifice of inaugural darkness.


From dark skin to white hair;

Habituated in one’s inner sanctum.

Loving, hating, somewhere between everything.

Cursing, wearing a scarf of weary strangling.

A past grown tired of fighting,

Of never letting go…


“We were completely visible and simultaneously, completely invisible. To be seen, to be heard, to go unnoticed. Shadows in the constant night. Bugs to serve no other purpose than a nuisance. That was what we were. That was the theatre our weekends had morphed into. A realism of chaos within a world of uncertainty. A […]

In The Unknown

I crave touch.

Skin against skin.

A closeness unknown.

Intimacy unexplored.

Though, I am a prisoner,

Within a mind of petiness.

Encased within endless anxiety;

Endless self-judgement.

An escape, a freedom,

It is all I seek.

To feel warmth.

To be greeted with one’s smile.

Unfaltering in love.

Love… what can one say of love?

For it is as elusive as touch.

As mysterious as pleasure.

Both in body, and in soul.

For I live a life in the pure unknown.


The Wild Man

Here walks the man.

Curiosity his other half.

Both danger and surprise, lurking.

He lunges onward nonetheless.

His destination unnamed.

His prerogative blowing in the wind.

Something of an enigma in his head.

Dreams, they run to the sun.

Wondering if he might ever reach;

A place without that brisk breeze;

Without the untamed sins.

Or is this just one of those things,

That blows in the wild of the wind.