From the Trance Crypts of the Roil Lemurian Turbulation Dervishes

The words grow here slick and filthy and unhindered by enterprise.

There is nothing flexible about the way you look at me between those big blue ice sculptures. A spring attached to a coil enables me to breathe in the dark, and it’s hardly worth arguing about. Apprised of grey vibrations, I have been given a dishonourable charge. A tantrum in a tantric tremendum breathes new life into a squalid marriage consecrated by the usual mundanities. And in the din of inequity, we practiced telepathic Sirian holography for the surly droves.

Dressed in nothing, the day is ending so abruptly I can’t figure it out. There was jewellery stashed in a pumpkin on the middle of a sunlit warehouse floor – that much I remember. Was the floor hardwood or concrete? Try not to imagine, let it be recalled or not. Hour of glass. That languor which envelops but never quite annihilates. A telephone ringing in another century. I took her picture. It wasn’t the end of the world.

Air-raid sirens in afternoon dreams. A razordisc too thin to be of this world, but I pick it up anyway.

Spume at her thighs as she rises from the ocean bed. I can have you now by magic or drudgery. All the little elfin figurines have been drugged. Crack them open and spread the dusty paste over your chosen chakras. Carry the puppy from sleep as you would a burning cottage from your dream. We’re drooling lava onto your new pillows. Patterns of daisies with semen. All over the afternoon walls.

It is my job to point out the faces in the wood panelling. Your god is against the grain. Ours is all for it.

I’m not smart enough for this to be happening to me. I lag behind on shopping expeditions, my thoughts skirting, my desires panting, my yin yanging in the clanging din. I cannot touch you softly enough. You cannot hit me hard enough. We’re the worst couple on earth, but everywhere else we’re perfect. (If you’d told me it was dynamite, I would have lit it anyway.)

It takes years and years to shift a single chakra gear – unless you start at the crown and work your way down.

She really gets my donkeys up onstage. I love the way she plays with their expectations. Like a little dragon-faced hen bursting with tinsel and frayed at the wrong end.

Will this hour never pass? It’s the same one I’ve been living all my life. Yet that is beside the point ...

The usual tendency is to take a cylindrical organic object – say, a weasel or a zucchini – and plunge it into the soft yielding folds. To be doing so is not unlike the doing of anything else entirely distinct from everything on earth. And here, if you watch closely, you will see the voice peer out in silence from between the lips of the sleeper.

It is a night bus dead in a dream. And now that I’m awake I see that it crumbles on a road outside a shop called Leather Heather (she leads the séance through a field of swaying purple flowers). This is the Dominion of Tricks, the Realm of the Pranksters. This is where you let me ... no – you won’t even let me do that here, will you.

Heavily eroticated. Small Animals Alert. The one-eyed dragon breathes cosmic fire in a soggy velvet cavern. Gate to the underworld: pay on the way out.

There they go, the bluefrocked ghosts, out into the night of rain. Nothing can rescue me now. I am naked and wavering and have no stories to tell. Scant of decadence. Decade ends in a dance of decay. Remembrance frayed in the shredder of dismay and distance. Automatic vagrancy. Passive sensorial murder. Disengage to drift and revolve, dissolve in a light grey pool of your own nothingness.

The stars are dropping like flies, making it difficult to sleep. But tomorrow we can nap all day, beneath muslin canopies in the grove. Soft silver æroplanes will decide the rest.