REM-Blind

Ev’ry night I close my eyes
And enter in your world of lies –
It’s not your scary ones I fear,
But all your fantasies and memes –
It’s not the nightmares, but the dreams !

I swear, this time, as sleep comes near,
I’ll keep my wits and vision clear –
But how can I, when ev’ry time I doze,
My eyes must close ?

And suddenly I’m unconcerned,
With logic overturned and shot –
Instead, I find myself a slave
To ev’ry passing alpha wave.

So all those lovers, all those highs,
Those treasure troves and dragonflies –
And all for what ?
It’s not to make me sadly wise,
For lessons learned are soon forgot.

You took my hope, you took my trust,
And strung me on throughout the night,
Before you vanished into sleepy dust –
My innocence once more was sold
For mem’ry holes and fairy gold !

And willing dope was I, alright –
The fool you fooled the night before,
And who you’ll surely fool again,
To lead astray down lackwit lane.

Was this your prize ?
Was this the reason for your lies,
To bring this naive mortal down to size ?
But then, when stranded in the dark,
I must have made an easy mark.

But worse than that, deep down, must be
That knowing all along
The one who plays the piper’s song,
Who does me wrong with such a glee –
It’s all myself and only me !

 

 

 

In the Arms of Morphea

Oh, I could sleep for a hundred years –
Sleep through bombardment or brass band or earthquake,
Sleep through a hundred-fold stampeding steers,
Sleep with more passion and vigour than when I’m awake,
With a beautiful absence of fears –
For so comes my guardian muse.
You’ll think me too-slumbered, encoma’d, unwound –
An elegant study in prone and supine.
With hardly a care if I never come round,
Each whispering breath but a sigh of repletion divine –
So sweet is the stupor, so stormless the snooze.
And tenderly, warmly, and soft she sedates,
My deadlines dissolve and my duties unstream,
My tension unstraps and my hasslements scatter –
For there on my pillow, my mesmerous mistress awaits.
And do I dream ?
Perhaps.  It really doesn’t matter.

 

 

 

My Second-Best Beds

The beds that I’ve slept in, the beds that I’ve known:
Each harder than vapour and softer than stone,
From four-poster boasters to flea-bitten heaps –
I’ve sailed on their billows and sunk in their deeps.
From headboards to bedsteads, from duvets to sheets,
From brass-knobs to tassels, from casters to pleats,
With mattresses lumpy or stuffed to the seams:
They each one and ev’ry are beds of my dreams.

But they never will be perfect;
They’re close, but they never will.
In all my sleeping days alive
In which I ply my greatest skill,
The bliss of never-knowning five ayem
Is never quite as good in them.
However much they rest me,
They are always second-best –
Why climb the hill to Bedfordshire
To lie alone atop its crest ?
The bed I most desire to keep
Is in beside wherever you may sleep.

The beds that I’ve slept in, the beds I’ve called home:
To lie down on eiderdown, horsehair and foam.
From top-bunk to futon, from hammock to cot,
I’ve slept in the worst and the best of the lot.
Springs within pockets and springs within springs,
From the smallest of cribs to the sizes of kings.
A third of our lives is spend under their care,
From a bench in a park to the Great Bed of Ware.

One night, I swear I’ll drift away,
A hundred years a-snore,
And float amid the elves and fay
To where no dreamers dare explore,
And free my delta-waves to play
Where only Nemo came before.
Until I’m tossed upon your shore again,
To share once more your counterpane.
For the perfect place for counting sheep
Is right beside wherever you may sleep.

 

 

The title comes from Shakespeare, though not from his plays.