Half awake and half dreaming | a wash of lullabies in imagined seas | a foam of pillows | water wallows and ripples in shallows | Glittering | under the wavering rings of reflected light flowing over | the shimmering surface of | a sheltered lagoon | like an antique bracelet of gold, glimpsed by | passing fairy travellers from the rails | of galleons of lime-leaves and thistledown, with white hawthorn sails and spiderweb rigging | your mother’s voice | still young with your childhood | fills you with a blissful fatigue, the power | to rest against her | peacefully | secure | unconfused | The dither and drone of plump bumble bees | those | portly courtiers | zipped among | slipped among | honeybees and wasps | with rapiers and capes | chevaliers in mumbled, jumbled stories and books | of roses and Buckingham | you masqued pageboy | illustrated in mysteries | from heroic centuries | the wine of the dew | in barrels of peonies | in a garden in Burgundy | whine in the courtyards | of your doze-filled ears | villainous mosquitoes | (Look sharp! Keep on your toes!) | draw blood from flesh wounds | Porthos and Athos | Les Trois Mousquetaires | wrens and cole tits | d’Artagnan and bandits | among tumblers’ flowers | honeysuckle and lavender | Aramis and Richelieu | with quick musine footsteps | fence and battle | duel with nettles | to test your mettle | for hours and hours | afternoon explorers | in canoes or fine carriages | in the shade of a reverie | the castle you keep | in the corner of an eye | for you are the hero | bold to swashbuckle | in galoshes, your foil | a swish of hickory or hazel | brave and resourceful | until bedtime comes | and your indomitable fortress | falls in a tear || Sometimes, even now, after all these years | you find yourself standing | before that fortress | and the plain around it is barren | worn out with all the footsteps | strangers took to get | to know you | and changed | strangers took to | get away from you

Still-dazzling realm | of rainbow palaces | conjured from summer rain | The drunken child | a bottle on its side | leaking its contents | magical words | with no utilitarian purpose | streaming out | seeking new values || Phantasmagoria || The addicts’ creed | “For as long as it lasts, it is” | You storm the castle | but when it has fallen, it is | impossible to hold | or to relinquish or | recapture | all you can remember | is how it feels | not to be | within its | comforting | walls || These are the laws of paradise | things that, as you make them, you break them – such delicate things || Having discovered this truth, the child | vomited and cried, but | tomorrow had already started its | chain reaction inside his heart and, besides, there was one castle, on a steep hill, surrounded by a deep moat the colour of swallows’ wings | he could still enter, where time | is no more, and never was, or will be: the Castle of Sleep


from the series bliss point | angels of disorder
(open-ended, 2012–present)