MichaelAitken

13th December 2018

I travel in the backseat of a dream. Shadows loom in space and time. This sleeping night, this world without man. The peaceful darkness where I wander
meeting personalities who could be real. Who talk and unravel a developing film, who show me pictures cut out of other peoples dreams. Who show me the roads I came from and the roads I’m on; this is better they say. Has it a basis in reality, we will see, you and me, in a dream.

I travel in the backseat of a dream, so clear, so close, so near that I can feel. I want to know, and I wonder, as the dream rolls out its quiz of conundrums.
The man in a battle, with war all around can dream of angels, while the wealthy man in a great tower can dream of walking down a dark and dangerous corridor.
A dream can last for years. A problem that you cannot get into focus. A barricade of broken things that stops you dreaming of great worlds.
Is the visitor in your dream a real visitor with another life outside of your own, are they all real people, those that people your dreams, who unravel the schemes of the nuaghty world.

I travel in the backseat of a dream. A limousine, or a bus. Teach me the wheel of life, teach me the gears; that a ticket has a price. Is this my dream now, has the insurance paid off and what of this cough . . . . .
or that man with a gun, or that blazing sun.

The moon is crossing with a bright jesters face with skin like a frightened chicken.

Waxy trees of egg shell hanging hooks slide through the hall of blood and feathers.

The first man made arrow hits the slaughterhouse, a third of the earth shakes.

Moon Crossing was a place outside of town, magical and unreal. Two young lovers set out to see it; they walked between trees and followed the abandoned railway track.
Then above the skyline they saw it, in a coat of silver light, the moon, crossing over into the afterlife, with a smile like that of a jester.

The first man made arrow was a throwing stick maybe until it flew across time and landed at your feet, a sign, do not pick it up it will surely turn into a venomous snake.

Drifting about hither and thither, an autumn leaf in the wind. I admire the autumn colours of the forest; I must follow the fluttering autumn leaf. When the moon is the priest of the twilight then we shall be one; my autumn leaf and I.

Early in the morning I walk through the industrial estate past the shrieking gates of the slaughterhouse .
The conveyor belt didn’t stop, hit the big red button again. The slaughterhouse is like a black star, and everything not nailed down is sucked into machinery and dies.

Moon Crossing, you’ll see it from where you are, above the silver fields. The jester has gone; the moon has a new feminine face. Watch her cross over the fields perspiring with light. You feed your gaze on her illustrious shine. You listen, will she speak? You feel as bright as the moon, she should acknowledge you as you watch her cross over but then, she is gone from sight.