Reading an essay called 'Truth and Meaning' after
a forty plus degree day
and 150 minutes of Creative Writing teaching,
I shake my head to free
the muscles in my neck. Arterial roads
are blocked to the city
of my thinking chambers, multi-forked trenches
house the open wiring,
sparks running along their surface like disco rats,
thoughts arcing over -
'Postmodernism shows us the impossibility of
the existence of one
true version of anything that matters.'
Berryman whispers in
the dream shadows, 'anti-matter matter' ...
'St Steven / getting even.'
The electric fan visits and I wait for its wind.
The simple things in life
are still complicated. I pick up the theme of
a dream last night:
analysing the dream in a dream and waking up,
analysing it. And
go to sheep, counting sleep ...
Andrew
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