I Must Have Been

Some Dream I Had While Sitting At Home Listening to Thom Yorke’s ‘Anima’

I’m gasping as we fuck, suffocation thrill, till blackness. Someone says the word ‘stars’. I am reminded as if awakened. I am reminded of a highway at night, red winking, white ignition, an artificial wind hurled by the great trucks that pass. Moon from behind a cloud. I am thinking, progress is not happening. Night with the death pulse. Oil, monoxide, caged travellers. Little voices in their cells. I wait, my feet planted on concrete and ash, my boots cold with the night. The sound of the cars going by catches like a melody in my throat. I feel a pain in my back, my shoulder blades. As it intensifies the bone begins to break through my skin and, as I arch my shoulders forward to ease the pain and grasp hold of a sign that says ‘Merge Right’, a very light rain begins to fall like small pieces of ice, but the wetness on my back is not ice or rain or star-mess, it’s blood. I am growing wings against my will. And soon I am flying against my will, my mind attuned on some wavelength that I identify as sadness, a collective sadness that arises from people’s palms and thumbs and eyes and thence into my body. It is less like flying, I realise, than swimming through air that is the constitution of an expiring species. Chilled by stars. The lights of the cars float up too. Each light pierces me. Each is a memory of childhood. A backyard with chickens looking for food. Crows calling from a gum tree in a nearby lane. Cancer. The spikes of a bicycle. A comic book on a train. Soon I dissolve into more than I can retrieve, and I am only conscious of my self as a form of breathing. I seem to subside down through this ocean of air and pass like a shiver through the trees. Can you see me? I call. Can you see me? But not many understand. I have lost my voice as I knew it and become feeling, mood, something that stirs an instinct on the skin. I am disappearing but I am here. The cars engine on into the night as I dissipate. I mix with traffic glitter as I fall closer to the road. I seem to spread out and coat the city in a dream it cannot know it is dreaming. The city whispers everything back into me. Death is a secret we keep. I must have been like this already. I must have been…

Mark Mordue ©