in waking moments she often climbed Jacob’s ladder

why? she knew not, cared not if the truth be told

yet she could testify first hand to all who might listen

that atop this puffed-up earthly domain all there was

was a place barren of hidden desires and emotions

a tedious realm of ‘in your face’ grinning do-gooders

and a whiffy care home for the reluctantly unspoiled

her preference for as long as she could remember

was a bandaged whereabouts where realities purity

was indistinguishable from the abstract, namely

the immaculate cloud cuckoo land of deepest sleep

her pronouncements upon waking

were both sought after and legendry

they earned her a pretty penny

from those seeking imperial predictions

those others questing direct messages

from the ghosts of loved and hated ones

indeed, she had oft considered the fact

that the offerings of her mind surpassed

the tiresome eternal male pursuit

for her, admittedly pleasing body

something of a hoot

“Illusory, bizarre, fearsome, exhilarating, mysterious, wistful, daredevil, carnal. Why would I trade my dreams for what you call the tangible?”

Be that as it may

not that long after the Fall of Rome

her mouth-watering dreams swiftly abated

conscious thoughts of tiresome Odovacar

the dullard leader of The Goths

the first King of a trampled Italy

laid waste her nocturnal involuntary arcadia

defiled her dead to the world risqué darkest imaginings

her dependable across the counter revelations also

the dreamer’s worst affliction

insomnia had struck

that he was an abject bore of the first order

had the manners and foul odour of a pig

the penchant for cruellest random brutality

effectively killed that gifted genius

the one she had relied upon since lucid vanity

had waved its ‘I’m so sorry’ goodbye

puerile Odovacar in flight of fancy’s fancy

was determined to wed and a bed a dreamer

it was thus, born of reluctant desire

and the need for a few shekels more

she made love to the repugnant first King of Italy

following which she slept as deep forest log

after the ‘event’ she poisoned him, of course

a sweetened blend of deadly nightshade and mandrake

written upon next day’s tablets and yelled by the crier

Odovacar’s demise fortuitously labelled “Natural causes”

the simple-minded punters came back in droves

and the Sandman greeted her each twilight

with a perfect kiss


33 thoughts on “DEEPEST SLEEP

    1. Well I’m rather glad you like this line. Immediately after I posted, the thought struck, that whilst I had researched the awful creature that was Odovacar, I had failed to research exactly when The Sandman came into being historically. I suspect his origins are American, so likely I am wrong in terms of authenticity. I still like that line though, as the gals in everything I write have to end up winners.

      1. I was pleased to read The Sandman was penned as a romantic, rather than something dreadfully sinister. A true win-win for all, especially if we don’t count Odovacar, on second thought make we should.

      2. Romance in the wake of evil is the ideal state of being. Sadly, it was, it is but a dying dream…if indeed it ever it was more than just a dream. Maybe The Sandman can yet save us all.

    1. Thank you Pat. Did you know that he time honoured quote, ‘All that glitters is not gold’ is from the Canterbury Tales? I live close by to Canterbury and take coffee in the St Pierre café with alarming regularity.

    2. No, I didn’t know that, but it is good information that I’ll keep in my memory. Maybe someday….I’ll drink coffee at St Pierre cafe.
      Have a great week.
      Shalom aleichem,

  1. Been away a few days now catching up on all of the stories I have missed…all are great as usual.

  2. One of the creepiest characters in folklore has to be The Sandman. I think the idea of him giving perfect kisses gives the poem a delicious irony. I hope he doesn’t visit me when I dream!

      1. Well, it’s this little man that comes to you when you are sleeping & sprinkles sand in your eyes. I think they did a horror movie about him. I mean, he doesn’t do any overt harm but the idea itself is creepy! (Supposed to explain why sometimes you wake up with yr. eyes stuck together with “crust” or whatever it is!) But the British are hardier souls than we Americans. You can live with ghosts!

      2. Cheers for that. I always had the Metallica version in my head. Over here, The Sandman… think, I’m often wrong…is an OK sort of chap. So long as I don’t have to live with the ghost of my mother-in-law, I’m fine.

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