Realm of My Dreams

Realm of My Dreams

Ghosts are haunting the realm of my dreams.
Living creatures don’t live here, it seems.
The dead live. Ghastly grins
call to mind fears and sins–
and they work in unbeatable teams.

–Tom Riley

Ill Dreamt

Ill Dreamt

“We dreamt of you!” they told him in his dream.
“At any rate, we dreamt of one like you—
One who would, as a revenant, pursue
Our bones past every noumenal extreme
Into reality. Our vibrant team
Got right to work, as threatened creatures do.
Ideas, happily, were far from few.
We’re ready for your horror movie scheme!
Our sacred objects now we elevate!
Upon their fiery glow will you be fried!
We chant our orisons! Ha! Feel their weight!
Our studied piety can’t be defied!”
He woke then, overwhelmed by all their hate—
And was, as monster, truly terrified.

–Tom Riley

Netherward

Netherward

You had a visit to the Nether World.
Don’t let them tell you it was just a dream!
You fell as your attendant spirit willed.
You had a visit to the Nether World—
Where listed rules themselves are weird and wild
And every step an unforeseen extreme.
You had a visit to the Nether World.
Don’t let them tell you it was just a dream!

–Tom Riley

Adjustment

Adjustment

For lack of sleep, you’ll have to give up dreaming.
Stay wide awake and maybe you’ll adjust.
With images, perhaps, your brain is teeming.
For lack of sleep, you’ll have to give up dreaming
Of anything beyond the current seeming.
Steady your soul! Reality or bust!
For lack of sleep, you’ll have to give up dreaming.
Stay wide awake – and maybe you’ll adjust.

–Tom Riley

What Dreams May Come?

What Dreams May Come?

 

Do I get enough sleep?  Silly question.

Sleep is not there for patient ingestion.

It engenders dread dreams—

And thus thoughtless extremes.

Go to sleep?  What a hurtful suggestion!

 

–Tom Riley

Rapey, Sexy Life of E. Jean Carroll

The Rapey, Sexy Life of E. Jean Carroll

 

The rapey, sexy time she had with Trump

Was the best time her body ever had.

The memory’s a tingle in her rump,

The aftermath a let-down, deep and sad.

Oh, he was masterful, that grinning cad!

What’s that?  Resist?  Oh, well, of course she tried.

Aloud, she didn’t call that great beast “dad.”

Still, penetration couldn’t be denied.

Then every cell within, transmogrified,

Sang like a fat bitch at the highest note.

Half of her nerves were roasted, half were fried.

He launched her rocket, and he sank her boat.

It’s hurtful that she had to come awake.

Why can’t dreams ever last, for goodness’ sake?

 

–Tom Riley

 

Can’t Place It

Can’t Place It

Christine’s lapses are rather extreme
As she testifies, folks, for the team.
See the cloud on her face:
Can’t remember the place.
It was all like a horrible dream.

–Tom Riley

Dislocation

Dislocation

It happened in a place no voice can name,
A house whose outline grows distinct, then fades.
Perception there resists mere logic’s raids,
And certainty is something facts can’t tame.
It happened there – but happened all the same.
Specialists in oneiromantic trades
Will give the troubled witness lofty grades.
It happened, she can well and truly claim.
It’s never right to sneer: “Ah, just a dream.”
No! Dreams are truths uncannily restored.
They’re higher truths. The whole angelic team
Proclaims this rule with one elite accord.
Let be find its finale now in seem!
Such is the tale of Christine Blasey Ford.

–Tom Riley

Sacrifice

Sacrifice

 

 

He sacrificed his sleep — and all this dreams
rushed to exact a vengeance hard and pure,
one that embodied all the worst extremes.
He sacrificed his sleep — and all his dreams
organized into unforgiving teams
and forged ahead, their victory secure.
He sacrificed his sleep — and all his dreams
rushed to extract a vengeance hard and pure.

 

 

–Tom Riley

De Intelligentia Canina

De Intelligentia Canina

 

 

 

 

I like to think my dog can understand

The comments that I mutter in the morning—

Comments, perhaps, that my subconscious planned

All through my dreams, where promise, yea, and warning

Mingle and mix while both of them are scorning

The waking world and all that logic crap,

Symbologies unlimited adorning

The cloudy rooms where conscience beats the rap.

I like to think my dog, though not a sap,

Is well attuned to grumbles and to grunts

I utter as the day’s insistent trap

Closes around me.  Maybe I’m a dunce

To entertain this wild, unlikely view.

But sir:  he understands far more than you.

 

 

 

 

–Tom Riley