imaginary cities: rapa —

That vision of you standing in the snow was my secret talisman, a lucky charm to ward off bad weather, frosted lips and crunch hips. This time, dumbstruck by seasonal variations, I’m moving slowly along a gigantic wedge, following my own reversed footprints in the hope of getting home before dark. That monkey, sitting on the dead tree bough, brought up insane cackles from deep within me, then was gone. This dream, in which all the scenes freeze as if it’s a dirty dvd, causes strong motion within my stomach, and the wind’s howling and the tree is gone. That might sound melodramatic but I’m unfamiliar with sub-zero survival and I’ve got no idea how to keep out the forgetfulness of cold. This bridge, festooned with ice tentacles, promises nothing in the way of supplies, shelter, fire or rest. That bar is no longer there, so I dream of plum wine as if it is my own blood, unfreezable, treacle-like, swaying. This nightmare, that recurrs, involves a long boat and a knife. That knife, whose sharpness I have never tested, nevertheless cuts me open, then drops to the floor with a death-clatter. This death is just like all the others, neither painless nor swift, neither liberating nor constricting. That phone call will come, some verdant mourning, and you’ll drop the pen and crossword, rise up from the sink and smash their mealy mouths. This could be a call to arms for all my family, only I can’t hear them right now and they’re scared. That guitar lesson taught me few things, but I can still remember them, even when I am drunk and there’s no guitars. This morning, trudging through the ice, I made a decision which I had to revise as soon as I saw the car coming fast towards me. That decision, regarding pouring rain and silent snow, comes up again every once in a while, to the nation’s detriment. This year of living daisies is coming to an end but what’s a year, anyway, compared to a yew. That was meant to be funny and cryptic and ambiguous but then again sashay past me and the game’s up. This cringing tide, this anagram of speed, this multiple-poled universe. That dry ice, that federation of losers, that crusted envelope. This girl, that girl. That boy, this boy. This way, hurry. That will never happen. This is your guarantee.


About the author

Davey Dreamnation (1972–?) is an Australalian musician, vocalist, pirate and record-label owner who now lives 'in the third person'.

View his full biography.

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