The Landscape is fetid
Pustules rise from the ground
Pulsing with sickly green
I avoid them
Skipping on stockinged feet
Stripy and saggy
Toe elongate
A large witch’s hat
Looms as a cathedral
On the horizon before me
Purple velvet
The pile deep and luxuriant
The tip a spire
Reaching to a sky of pink transparency
A silver staircase twists its way up
I follow it
Dress skirts flapping with each step
At the top I stand on the tip
Balanced precariously and look
To the tangerine skyline
Where six white sales glide
Above yellow sulphur waves
Each the crescents of moons
Waiting for me
I fall and fly
Peak forgotten
I fly to them
But they are transient features
Fading before I can reach them
Leaving me fatigued above the turbulence
I fall an Icarus of this strange world
I fall and the waves reach up
Cradling me
I awake to a world – far stranger
And much more disturbing.
