V.74 Response to ‘Dreaming of a Butterfly’ by Sakutaro Hagiwara

Justo Judicio Dei
condemnatus sum. I dream that –
due to some sin I am sprawled out
on a sofa, weighed down by wings.

I have been turned into a large
butterfly, whose wings were not meant
to be so large, and now crumble,
leaving pearlescent blue-green shards.

Rain recedes against the window
or, more likely, just a grey sky.
“SHOULDN’T YOU BE AT WORK, MY GOD” –
the knocking on the door won’t stop –

The sigil daubed there has not helped.
I must drag myself leaving trails
of mother of pearl to and from
the door. In my dreams trains crashing

roll across the fields, crumpling up
like a broken display case. See
the big pin through my insect heart?
Why do I feel it’s all my fault?

Then Enya’s voice, like a soft hand
is firm and raises my head up –
there is a council yet to hold,
a voice that all this strife can end

V.55

Accosted by a dark new mood
after a dream involving fire
towering above the georgian
terraces, and Bon Iver grown

cold and unfeeling, exploiting
my love of their music for cult
ritual aims. A horror dream.
I sit and feel real horror, as

the dull news legitimises
violence with a short sound bite
‘I’m just saying what everyone’s
thinking’ and that’s that. What the fuck.

I can’t defend such a robot
action (in the Czech sense) – playing
clip after clip of glob brained dullards
who believe solely in themselves

like a kind of solipsistic
brick, thrown through the window of my
mind. The clouds darken but the bright
and constant thereness of all things

is there like a bed for my brain.
Insects want platform for their buzz.
Insects can’t abide the changing
language. Insects click and stutter

Sevillan

Sometimes, particularly after bouts of prolonged unspecified pain, sometimes I feel like my body isn’t mine as my lips tingle and a virus makes its lonely way.

I lie, hot under the sheets and think of manipulating your body, the soft human fur over the slightly sweat-damp skin, the malleable hardness of your skeleton and its firm muscular grammar, I imagine grasping you and laying you on top of me like a pillow or a cat, and it is a sweet dream, as sweet as the dream that first drew together the word sweet, the sweet of bittersweet, and dream, the dream you can’t tell is unreal, and never want to wake up, this sweet and this dream, together. And I imagine or hear your voice singing, por favor, por favor, over and over til your eyes pierce me and I burst.

If I am desired in my dreams with no resentment, then it is possible. I have reached a place of acceptance, where the moths land and scurry along my skin, and I watch them, feeling love. Later as I lie gazing into the sky I watch unfold a vast pink rose on a teal field where the night stretches over like a duvet tent, and everything seems okay.

The Wasp-dream

The kind wasp woke me
It knew that I had dreamt
So its wings began to hit the glass
Til, bruised of life, it went

To a mouldy corner
Of the velux blind
And walked along the window sill
Until it left my mind.

It must have had a seance
Amongst the piling tread
As I later found it curling there
Dried out and dead