WE NEED TO GET THE BLOOD BACK IN THEM

Dreams can only be weird. They're weird if that face from Power Rangers was whispering Keats into your ear in a German accent, a soothing German accent whilst treating you to a meal of white chocolate spaghetti with marshmallow sauce.

I want some white chocolate spaghetti with marshmallow sauce.

That is the best idea ever.

They're weird if you're just looking at yourself reading a newspaper. Sometimes I dream that I'm just staring at the walls all night. Just looking at the ceiling, thinking about nothing

and it's beautiful

because I never think about nothing

I've been worrying far too much recently. I've been morphing into a fortyfive year old mother of four, eating porridge with water and treating myself to a glass of Jacob's Creek at the end of another stressful day. Feeling the death shuffle. Starting to feel the death shuffle.

I haven't actually been eating porridge with water/ Jacob's Creek. Nah mate, it's still Ben and Jerrys for breakfast and Jacques/Kopparberg/Cocktails for lunch, but mind-melt minded, my brain is identifying as the fortyfive year old matron.

lush.

so last night I dreamed something again

and it was beautiful.

because I rarely dream about something.

it was all in kaleidoscope, it was a party. it was me, alan ginsberg and felicia hemans shooting up in the toilets of a blow-job toilet gay club. not london, never london. dancing to 1940s drum and bass, and we dove deep into the sewers and made fuck times. but we all hated each other.

like dreams mean shit, anyway. I still woke up and ate my peanut butter, like every other day. Smelling the same.

in my old dreams, i would be scared. and i'm never scared now. i haven't had a nightmare in over a decade. more. and fall. i would always fall.

(we have four jars of peanut butter in our cupboard, just in case)

and i decide that I'm just about ready to leave the village, the pleasant sunsets, the cow torn grass and death shuffle

and i decide that it's time (again) to be young and to be that old man breakdancing in a seaside high street not because he wants your cash but because he can fucking break his neck if he wants to, bitch, now shut up and clap. or not. you choose.

and i decide that it's time to fall, again.