Every night, on the insides of my eyelids,
I paint the Universe with the ink set of imagination
And the charcoal sticks of memory,
Then flip it upside down and the wrong way round
And let it snag into focus-
On my sleeping synapses, the branches of the Inspiration Tree .
In my ivory skull-box of random echoes,
Every melody, every voice, is re-written and rescored,
For a symphony of electricity, crisscrossing nerves ,
And running down, like liquid lightning
Into the ears of the dormant soul.
Here, this is that part of my chaotic desk
Where I re-write physics to suit myself,
Redesign monsters and angels to my own specifications
Until the lines between them are blurred out of recognition.
In this drawer, I keep my nightmares
Under layers of fine, crinkled tissue paper, bound with laughter
And interspersed with the dead bodies of silk butterflies
This rack, here, holds the satin ribbons and velvet strings
Of the slipping, crackling madnesses that only come out when I call
And this chair.
This leather, swivelling chair, of worn through walnut and ebony wheels
This is where I rest
To sketch my fantasies on the canvas of the night.