Dreams

by David Greenslade

Dreams may never come true
but that doesn’t mean
Occipital Lobe will stop
sending them forward like steam
on tracks of black water.
Sometimes memory twitches
like a flicker down a tail. Futile –
as if the past had never drained
the Lost through a sieve
of long ago. Hallucinations
stroke your hair. Muttering
in an effort
to shake them off
just draws attention.
As my neighbour said,
getting rid of the bastards
is like wiping your arse
with a plastic bag.

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