Ambition

 New brooms sweep burned bridges into piles of ashen regrets.

Some say this way wipes slates white,

 writing “self awareness” in sinuous curve of tear tracks.

Blackened hands, blackened eyes,

scorched skirt rough against barbecued thighs.

Choking on the dust in the deserted river bed of ambition.

Dreaming of the days you played pooh sticks.

Dreamtime

I dreamed I swam down Tynwald Street
Upon a cloud of milk.
I smiled and waved to passers-by,
to mongers of all ilk.
I front-crawled over tiny men
who ran away in fear
and rained liquorice blackcurrants
on the Pearl Girl by Vermeer.
Tethered dogs all tipped their hats
and offered me their pipes.
I laughed to see the bird ballet
in Nora Batty tights.
I stopped outside the milliner
to joke with a singing saw
but treading milk makes butter
and I fell onto the floor.
My greasy coating sparked a thought,
I jumped into the sea
and butterflew myself away
to Elysium's blossomed lea.