When the Chips are Asleep

Twitter Sonnet #66

Warily translate overheard statements.
The thin woman lives in a secret well.
Allen Ginsberg hears from under pavements.
Much to authority shall tea stalks tell.
Time sneaks suits onto silver bullet trains.
Flight of Roger Thornhill's not for the meek.
Grey undead rain clouds grab broadly for brains.
Blue wallpaper's the sad meat from last week.
Green are the artichoke and spinach chips.
Wine is the last colour of thought spectrum.
Gnomes are naught but Duke Ellington's bli-blips.
A city's powered by hydraulic rum.
Powerful white apes in bed want you gone.
They aged in sleep before songs switched you on.

To-day I was dreaming something about car dealerships and Australians when the dream was abruptly interrupted by another where I saw my bed occupied by two small, angry figures. They looked like the tiny old crime bosses/politicians you see in a lot of anime--Akira, the syndicate leaders in Cowboy Bebop, or the council in Top wo Nerae 2. But for some reason, I was absolutely certain they were gorillas.

They had white hair and pale, pink skin with completely black, beady eyes. Their mouths were moving but no sound seemed to be coming out--finally I deciphered from the lip movements the words, "Go away. Go away right now. Go away." I woke myself up in half a panic with a feeling that I ought to leave the house, but the longer I was awake, the more rational I became and realised I simply couldn't afford to get up at 10:30am with everything I needed to do to-day.

I ended up getting around six hours of sleep, but I still feel a lot better than yesterday--that headache is totally gone, and I guess it might well have been from the previous night's gin. Headache hangovers are pretty rare for me, but this appears to be the second one I've gotten from this gin, which is really too bad as it's a marvellously smooth gin (Bombay Sapphire).