The City of Dreams lies as a lie,
a smoking, stinking lie,
a lie that no one else dares to contradict.
The City is filled with dust and more dust, with trash among the scraps.
Forgotten things, let go without a thought.
Life pulses nearer and more powerfully here, yet I loaf
In my apartment safe, and crowded. With furniture and
Christmas presents, my family, my stinking
Grandmother, I am crammed into a heated, lifeless hole.
I wish to shed my soiled, lousy and darkened skin, and step into
another piece, like from a crumpled dry dress to clean linens.
I am slowly dying of thirst, languor, and
a strange limbo of anger and complacency.
Life is more so bold around here, yet I am kept out of that
preferable chaos, and am locked up in a shabby
Potemkin village. An asylum. A place of refuge to those who have
rested in the streets. My tongue dried out like an Egyptian mummy,
readied for the wrapping, the burial. The cold, pleasing silence.
Life is more open, more giving to the senses, yet I am
unconscious. Incapable of true emotion and passion. Those things
died before my body did. Like that of an old maid at a few decades
before her time. The grave darkness that I cannot see.
The perfumes of rot I cannot smell, and the slimy worms poking through
what used to be skin–I never knew they were there.
I rise, then fall back, then I sleep. No use of moving
around in a place this small. A place not used for anything but rest.
Should I move but now, I shall be infected with insomnia,
Intrusive life flowing up my veins,
Claustrophobic. I lie still, in this
City of Dreams. What used to be and is to be, what I