Water has become
like my own alcohol
While I bask
In dreams of writing fiction
Hallucinatory illness
psychosis, threads
Always communicating
with each other
As if I am not there
only eavesdropping
On the conversation
Don’t talk to me
About tortured souls
or the ones who never
made it, were transformed by it
Lived through it, survived it
The atlas of their brains
and limbs asylum pieces
every one possessed
with a hard substance
Animal awakened by ritual,
Don’t talk to me
about the loneliness
or the Brighton people
As if it is supposed to mean
Everything to me like scar tissue
What terrible dreams I have
Of the ghost house, of insomnia
Of my childhood continued
Animals are dream catchers
The pigs are lurking there
Behind the looking glass
Their horrifying yet vital
dream-language must still
Be translated by inhuman me
By my incoherent brain.
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