I’m riding pillion on a motorway on a speeding motorcycle.
The motorway is crowded with refugees.
Tarmac cracked and grassy.
Trees at the roadside.
Emaciated women push shelters on wheels of canvas suspended between clothing rails.
Tiny children play beneath.
The watch us as we approach.
We speed past, the motorcycle banking as we weave in an out of them.
I’m in bed, but clothed.
A sharp pain on my side wakes me.
Something hard and prickly under my clothing.
I push it down my sleeve to get it out.
It’s a large spider: light brown; legs with edges that end in points; teeth.
An airport. On the perimeter road inside the fence.
The perimeter road is narrow and white. Like chalk.
Short grass. Trees. Blue sky.
A large aeroplane is coming in to land.
A passenger jet.
It’s wheels are not down.
I can hear alarms inside the cockpit.
The wheels extend at the very last second and the aircraft lands safely.
* this dream is *possibly* the result of watching Air Crash Investigation…
I’m at an open air festival.
It’s dark. Late at night. Candles glow.
Nick Cave’s strolling around in an emerald green suit.
We’re walking in opposite directions.
Fans crowd around him, chatting as if they all know him.
The ground undulates gently. He’s walking uphill.
The grass is worn away. Hard-baked earth shows through.
People are sitting in groups around fires and clusters of candles.
Blonde women in kaftans with acoustic guitars.
Like a post-apocalyptic Woodstock.
I am with a girl who has long straight hair.
We are both wearing backpacks.
Go through a doorway into a tropical rain forest.
Directly beyond the doorway is a rope bridge.
But the “rope bridge” is made of metal slats and fixed by elastic. It is somehow L-shaped, turning 90 degrees at half-way.
The bridge sinks alarmingly as we walk across it. It clangs noisily.
The ravine the bridge crosses is very narrow, the trees close enough to touch.
The bridge is very short.
The woods are dark and dense.
We are very nervous.
Written to the sound of Carry on Up the Morning by Babyshambles
Dream – 9 March, 09 – c04:00hrs
Being chased by Russian agents. Organised crime types. Real nasty.
There’s a pub with red walls and black oak beams. The floor’s uneven.
The Russians keep their prisoners in a dirty swimming pool.
They bring one out while I watch, tilting the pool to 90 degrees although all the water stays in it.
The prisoner’s pale and flabby.
Has red eyes.
I can only see his head.
He’s laden with oxygen tanks to keep him alive in the water. They must weigh a ton.
He looks like he’s been under there years.
The Border Trilogy – Cormac McCarthy
Pony Chair Black
“Conflict” short story commission
Numerous business reports
Pony Chair Black songs