Poem

I'm going to be writing a lot of poetry over the next few months, I think. So don't worry, I know what I'm writing. I just need to get it all out.

Dreams in Hell

We know that even the damned sleep
somewhere
curled away within themselves
there is the part that dreams
even if they cannot close their eyes
even if they cannot stop screaming.

And since they sleep,
they must dream.

Some of them in their dreams
find it no different than waking:
they brush their teeth
grab their car keys
step out into the inferno.

Some of them find
gardens
or houses at the seaside.

These are the nightmare-dreamers
these whose waking lives are sent to the sleepers who live;
they watch the alive in their dreams
curl and scream in their sleep
on the yellow-checked beds
in the seaside houses
and wake up and wake up and wake up
and dream still.

Some of them do not remember their dreams
they are called blessed
a word that means as much as any other in hell
and burns on the tip of the tongue besides.

And they talk endlessly amongst themselves in screams:
what is best

Being Burnt
Being Nightmare
Being Blessed

And the one who is all three
tires of this conversation
closes his eyes
leans against his throne of skulls
and dreams of each white feather on his perfect wings
catching embers
dropping
crumbling into char
as the music of the saints yet to be born
turns into alarm-clock screams.