I dream of a surplice and plastic plants trapped inside curtains covered by electric lamps. There the room grows big with its ghosts and sleeps.
Who will gently open the door
into where i debone my fears
with a bread knife sits outside and puffs
the grey and hollow delirium.
He slips down his rosary beads with old worries in tow, heaved by the surf and spit of the ruin drifting him towards his helpless addiction.
I dream of high rise shadows towering over an old rainfall chiselled chapel full of this discoloured angel and saints in their semi-automatic gloom.
The chapel closes its fist around the lit altar and the wings that arrive first are almost threadbare ruins from their addiction to the candle flame.
But it is this man at the backseat of the dream that troubles me, his eyes wide as a lake trapped in moonbeams.
I seem to be waiting for him to open his milk bone to its crimson blossoming and dip me into it in round wafers so I can taste his version of heaven.
But he is still smoking the reefer to its blue veined nipple and the sweetness is still stained with all that nails digging in his wrists.
By the time he withdraws back into his humanity the candles have picked their rose thorns from the discoloured clot and made a dark room for my soul in an exhale so deep he vomits from the serenity of it all.
📸: Tree in monochrome