A landscape built at ten past midnight

Rolling hills, grassy carpet daisy-dotted,

Teletubby land but without the disturbing lion and bear who were the fear of all kids born in the nineties,

A vegan KFC plopped in the middle provides ethical nourishment in the land of Bedfordshire,

Red and white tiles, but we’re in England, not America – I assume.

And I can sit on the floor it’s that clean, just in the corner where I like it.

Cake and custard for afters and you don’t have to pay, obviously, because who pays for things in dreamlands.

Night of the clubbing dead

Dream of viciousness and feeling lost.

Dream of bending over edges in high places and short skirts.

Dream of dark skies hiding neon colours in bricked rectangles.

Dream of bony fingers just clinging to their hinges, finding their way towards your mouth. Sucking them is accompanied by the very real fear that they might come off and you’ll be holding them between your lips.

Dream of violent altercation over who pissed on the floor, queue staying stubbornly intact all the while, through angry eyebrows and raised voices, a slammed door and a tut.

Dream of being summoned out with an arm in the air, giving a hateful glare but still having to traipse home with aching nubs for feet and never actually getting there.