We Sleepwalk

We comment on this classless town
By dropping our trousers
And spilling our drinks,

We share stories
And rotate the marinated lies,

We gamble and groan at the moon,
Sing songs in dying languages
And fumble the truth.

We watch people pass through,
Pause then take flight,
We kiss their distance,

We rarely leave and rarely grieve,

We roll up our sleeves
And melt into the furniture,

We set up niche websites
Selling spent dreams and fallacies,

We catalogue rushed photographs
Into files on stolen laptops
And call them memories,

We slump into cushions
Humming hypnotic songs,

Drift into cat naps,
All necks stretched,
Mouths flapping,

Limbs with a mind
Of their own,
Roaming lost.

Sleepwalking we talk
Between doorways,

Ignorance hand in hand
With its peace,
A feast in our thoughts,

We stagger into contentment,
The stairwell, the kitchen,

A somnambulist’s frisson,
Marshmallows and
Songs from the ether,

The pan-piped fantasies
Of growing old slowly,

A Thomas Cole landscape,
An ambrosial existence;

A wizened tree on a hill,
A gentle walk with fresh fruit
Plucked from nowhere,

A white horse galloping,

A soft, looming fog,
The smell of autumn leaves,

A mountain goat,
A picnic,

And a huge concrete wall

Surrounding our breaths
As they rise.

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