bleedingworlds (bleedingworlds) wrote,

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dark dreams and in-betweens

disclaimer: implied incest. haaaah.
(of the Sandman-Hoffman sort and only apparent to the Freudian mind, so not really)

28th april '10

a theatre, shaded. screenings of a fallen nature, with
veiled shadows and translucent overlays
in-between breaks, I run away

an open screen gapes, leading to a waterfall
the theatre is a tour bus filled with the members of my father's
old company who used to go on tours that went on and on while little me
sat in the back seat bored to death, silent and sulking

at another stop, a jade fountain with a lion's mouth spits water at the edge
of a massive cleft of rock that looms gargantuan, a chip
of nature's might articulated in a giant's fist
it peeks over the right hand side of the dark enclosure of the cinema-bus like
a phenomenon of daylight. at a distance, people take pictures
I glance, but solidly state I've seen it all before; we had passed by this
place on a previous tour the previous year and I had taken the relevant pictures,
recorded the relevant facts…

musty wood, old house, hidden corners; decay of wood-scented
shadows invade my body. a kitchen, maybe, hidden
in the kernel of a memory of a house loved, but now
pulled over in cobwebs and curtains.

here, a brother-- shadows. he comforts me with words,
we recognize each other's blood bonds, that tender
thread connecting him to me. I feel almost to weep, but the tears
linger like phantoms, dry on my cheeks, wreathing my face
like a grey halo, unable to be conjured despite emotion

his hands grasp my back, and he speaks over my body
leans over me and- for a moment- I know-
shadows smudge, muddle
he grasps my hand, pulls it to his dark shadow that
leaps like an elephant's trunk. I say, stop- stop-

in the toilet, I'm wearing my old primary school uniform
a white plaited shirt and sleeveless blouse with a round collar
the blouse has the characters "north mountain" stitched in red- the name of my old school
dirt from the floor smudges my skirt brown and black. the stains won't

theatre enclosed, again. someone narrates a running commentary
in person. I don't recall if we ever watch anything, only
that it seems more of a starting point, a place for beginnings

-woven in-between, I travel on foot with father, brother or others
whose faces are absent. we wander among carnivals and parks, under daylight
in another universe.

? April '10
(that day Etienne sms-ed me in the library
and I returned to the graveyard)

cliffs gargantuan; a massive train that leaps
across stony rock under a sky heavy with rain
a thin railway that worms dangerously
like a serpent over this rocky landscape, precipitously,
on the edge, wheels rattling like rusty bells-

a tour through old schools, corridors. all is damp
dewy filled with grey raindrops that saturate the atmosphere,
the concrete staircases and stairways as old feet
tapper like smudged ghosts.
I lurk in this place, real, lodged in the kernel of a frantic memory
passing by-


It occurs to me if that Freud ever read my (recent) dreams, I would probably get sent into a
mental institution. I wonder if this is a good thing.
Tags: cliffs, fountain, jade, memories, nanyang, old house, old school, railways, singapore, waterfall
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