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Red Dream And RazorbladesImagine. I see the hero-figure/ hear the wind on the window/ Feel it cold on my feet/ I'm frightened/ on my own again. Christmas. Christ was born on the cross! Everywhere These grey, sick, evil faces - grotesque masks - Down every street you walk. Where, I ask, Is the salvation? I've asked this question so many times, It reverberates in my skin, in the sky, In the walls of this room: an unholy AUM, Create, maintain, destroy. Create, maintain, destroy. This pattern repeats ad infinitum, But why? Once I thought I touched God... But it may just have been psilocybe psychosis Or touching into someone else's dreams. The ghoststeps and lullabyebyes are in my bone soul: Their voices, like the dribbling away of sand. And out in the hall, there's something weird/ wired... And there is no connection to my body Which is pulsing on its own. And now, I'm coasting over the city skyline; And far down below Scrabbled in the corner of a room, A small boy, crying. I am numb, sucked in by flashes of astral blue. Abraxas is crouched over me, whispering pictures Into my eyes: My father's thunderface; My mother and her sweet razor. Abraxas touches me. His hand inscribes A pentacle on my forehead, A stab of ice In my solar plexus. I burn, I melt: I die a little. The mist plays on my tongue. I must have more. I suck heavy on a cigarette/ drown down the feeling Again/ struggle to obliterate the silence/ But I falter And the silence turns against me. An unseen hand writes on the sheeted mirror: Red Dreams And Razorblades. Red dreams: the mess that razors made. I cut myself away from me In the name of freedom But ended up Chained & bound. These ribbons round my wrist Cut and burn and twist, But I am numb. I feel nothing. I want to run away, become a machine: I'm sick of stumbling. I shall sleep no more: I am a beggar on midnight street. See these hands? They are blue-white, bloodless lard. I hold them out: my eyes pleading. See these rib bones protruding? I am hungry. No-one will feed me. I don't want death. I don't want rebirth. I want Brahman: perfection, freedom and love. All I've got is embarrassment & cold draughts, Chains & masturbation. I want flight. Perfect flight. |
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This poem is featured in 'The Bad Seed', Dee Rimbaud's first poetry collection, published by Stride in 1998. You can purchase a signed copy by clicking on the book cover image below.
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| Home | Art & Illustration Galleries | Original Artwork for Sale | Writing | AA Independent Press Guide |
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