Tyres whine ever northward
from the crumbles of Rome
and ruins of Pompeii,
I breathe in as dust.
The autoroute is a perpetual
mobius strip of macadam
swallowed up by the
voracious odometre.
I fly through dozing villages
and casinos asleep under the sun
where empty gaming tables
lay in wait for night.
I dream in wide-eyed trance,
day-dozing past shuttered palaces
of ancient but gingery countesses
in lust-lorne distress,
pumping their haunches solo
in darkened high-towered boudoirs,
dreaming, as am I, of Göteborg and
twisty interlacings of cobbled lanes,
and Gothic attics and haunted
beauty of Nordic faces,
of pouting girls distressed
by angsty cinemateophiliac dreams;
dreams to awaken instinct,
longings to return to the
mother-comfort of sleep
to dream of waking.
Author notes
There is nothing to do but relax into the hallucinatory visuals of myth and memory. Just to be enjoyed, beyond analysis.
Written January 17th, 2004
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