They say it's tough times for dreamers.
No one struttles down Oxford Street with Rachmaninoff stalking them
in the form of perpetual personalised backing music. If they do, the keys
compete with radio buzz and they just dial off,
or get gnatgnawed so ghastedly that they look bubonic.
We're all waiting for that momentary thrill where, distracted
or unobservant, we supplant Hugh Grant in Notting Hill
and crash into our own little superstar, spilling orange juice
or suburban juice over their pristine whites,
except maybe it feels more like The Truman Show
with someone acting puppetmaster. Noncultural phenomena
are more interesting to the everyman than
metacultural metanonsensical metababble.
Cut the metacrap, I'm just waiting like the rest of us.
I got here earlier and I've got my Cheetos, Weetos and Doritos.
Life only lasts as long as a dream, so get the snacks in.
My super-ego superduced my dream I guess,
and thus this celestialism is at mercy to a whole alphabet soup of thought.
There's that selfsemblence of fourteen,
dreaming of Battery Square, though he's never been there,
and the image in his mind is actually of the stoically ordered
Denkmal für die ermordeten Juden Europas.
In this dream I am observing myself, much like in life
I am observing myself. I wonder if the beginning of this
film is like the end and I fast forward.
Ah, there's an actor playing Rachmaninoff playing Chopin's Funeral March. It's played
slow by this sleeze-bag play-bad that bawls
out all these tear-jerk stop-now sad songs.
And to think I missed the funny little scherzo leading up
to this moment! Exeunt Tragicomedihero, whose
death is a dumb-joke mishap stop gap,
part of these sell-out no-hope last dreams.
Whoosh! I'm dreamdust. I'm dreaming all over you, or at least dreaming
of something more sunny than the prescribed weather of my mind.
You'd need an umbrella for all these falling thoughts.
Comments about this poem (The Dreamers by Alexander Hawkins )
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