It’s time to climb the stairs again,
Up the cotton wool stairs to cloud cuckoo land.
(Or, probably, a nightmare land where
nothing as nice as cuckoos nest,
or cuckoos, yes,
but the real kind,
that boot the babies out to dash their brains
on the far off ground.)
Time for bed, sleepyhead.
Kiss good night and tuck-in time.
(And tucked in so tight under that suffocating sleep,
that sits like Huple’s cat on my face
so that I wake screaming in the small hours.)
And so to sleep.
(Yes, here I could quote Hamlet’s
what dreams may come, but here,
in this mortal coil,
my dreams throw tantrums already,
not waiting, respectful, like Hamlet’s,
for me to shuffle it off.)
Lamb's (lettuce) to the slaughter?
5 days ago