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Wednesday, 30 March 2016


It was a pink pill, or it might have been blue,
swallowed with a shot of something electric,
and then nothing for a while until the pretty girl
sitting on the armchair opposite became a warty hag.

There was no spinning room, just wavy lines,
exaggerated furniture and a red rose watching me
from the ceiling. I heard footsteps, unoccupied shoes
crossing the shifting floorboards, and a paper bag

flew around like a carefree dove with time to kill.
The hag’s eyes drooped, her neck flesh hung
like stretched dough.  I opened my mouth to speak,
interrupted by walls breathing asthmatically in and out.

The air turned crimson and then yellow, colours alternating
with each blink and a dancing bear performed Mr Bojangles.
I felt no fear, no concern, no surprise, had no idea where I was
but of wanting to sway and dream in those moments, I had no doubt.

Time undefined passed and I opened my eyes to a still room,
everything back to where it had been before the magic pill
and there, asleep in an armchair opposite, I saw the prettiest angel,
the one missing from my adventure, there with rose petals at her feet.

And in the corner of the room, an LP on repeat play, Sammy Davis Jr,
effortless, cool as I felt at that moment of awakening, easing along,
recapping what I think I’d done: “He’d jump so high, yes he’d jump so high,

then he’d lightly touch down.” My last memory of feeling so upbeat.

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