Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

In your sleep
Brando was alive again

playing an old wild one
with leather jacket

and slippers,
riding a three wheeled scooter,

and Marilyn Monroe
promised to kiss you

if you could recite
a Dylan Thomas poem

in French or Latin,
and your father came

in the dark robes of death
carrying the grey ashes

of your first burnt poem,
and Ezra Pound made a visit

to your writing room
insisting he’d written

more of those Cantos
from the other side

of the some god's light,
and as you turned over

seeking a comfortable position
in your long sleep,

you thought you lay
face to face

with Greta Garbo,
her eyes peering

into yours,
her lips waiting

to be touched.
In your sleep

someone wiped your brow,
kissed your cheek,

and recited
the Pater Noster

in your ear
and lay your arms

crossed on your breast,
muttering of eternal rest.

very lucid

thank you, revolutionrabbit.