( published 'Purple Patch' 1988 )
He came into my dream as large as life. Toting six-shooters, he was, and he came right up to my face without even a bye or leave, leering into my mouth,as if he was a dentist.
'Hey! What you want? Step outside, if you want to sort somethinc out,' I spluttered, forgetting we were already outside.
Infuriating! He didn't even deign to reply.
'WHAT YOU WANT? WHAT YOU WANT? HAVE SOME RESPECT!' I screeched.
He smiled,showed his own teeth as even as piano keys.
'What are you doing in my dream, anyway?' I whispered, having decided that a low profile was the best policy with this ugly customer.
And he replied 'Perhaps I should ask you that question, as it's, your dream,after all.'
Evidently, I had a lot of soul-searching to do. If you can't take responsibility for your own dream, it's a poorer world for that.
I spoke again: 'Well? errr? what I mean to say is, you look like a man who knows his own mind, in complete control of his own destiny,a man's man, but, lo and behold, you claim to be just a pawn on the chessboard of my dream...'
I'd got him! He would have no answer to that.
He immediately beat a retreat, with a Red Indian, in full war-dress, previously unnoticed by myself, stalking him into the scrubland. Come to that, I hadn't noticed the scrubland before either - a pretty dreary environment for a resplendent dreamer such as I. Ah, well, never mind, I hope to wake up shortly.
