Danica Green is a writer living in Wales surrounded by lots of sheep and little else. Her work has recently appeared, or is forthcoming, at Smokelong Quarterly, Neon, PANK, Eclectic Flash, Short Fast and Deadly and others.
The sleep was refreshing,
What I mean is that it was painful,
A most distressing venture.
I had a dream, a wonderful dream,
Beautiful and haunting,
I hated it.
In my dream I was running, on my legs,
Until I stopped by a stream,
Where water flowed.
These oddities continued,
I saw fish, swimming, fish with fins,
And trees that were not purple,
And the grass just sat there.
A bee approached me,
He did not greet me,
And less aghast at his rudeness was I
Than curious of his small stature and missing smile.
He stung me,
And I thanked him,
But I did not transform into a rocking horse made of scissor blades,
As one would expect.
The cause of my awakening is clear,
A bayonet in my arm,
Wielded by a tiger being vomited from a tiger,
That sprouted from the fish
Who lives inside the pomegranate.
As I float above my rock,
An elephant marches past in the ocean,
Fifty feet tall,
Carrying an obelisk on its back.
I’m glad everything is normal again.
I shall take a walk today
Through the rainbow grass
To the field where the quadrangular mice live
In houses made of cutlery.
And as I lie down on a melting clock,
While a giraffe burns silently in the background
I shall think
How nice it is to get back to reality.