What Dreams May Come

What Dreams May Come

I wake up in a film noir bedroom—
streetlamp shadows on my ceiling.

I dreamt not of being chased
but of chasing, of attacking—
of taking primitive pleasure
from the feel of a face
under my fist, the taste
of someone else’s blood
on my knuckles,
the satisfying slish of a knife
penetrating a plump belly,
the recoil of a rifle
against my shoulder
and the head of a stranger
in my sights exploding.

I stumble to the bathroom,
flip the light,
splash water on my face
in the dirty mirror,
hair estranged,
stubble like tombstones,
I look guilty as hell
and wonder out of which circle
that nightmare slouched.

Happy Halloween!

About Bartholomew Barker

Bartholomew Barker is one of the organizers of Living Poetry, a collection of poets and poetry lovers in the Triangle region of North Carolina. Born and raised in Ohio, studied in Chicago, he worked in Connecticut for nearly twenty years before moving to Hillsborough where he makes money as a computer programmer to fund his poetry habit.
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17 Responses to What Dreams May Come

  1. JeanMarie says:

    This revision is even better than the version I saw. Really well done. I’m sure I will sleep well tonight!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Lisa Tomey says:

    Stubble like tombstones… Like that!

    Liked by 1 person

  3. jupitergrant says:

    Ooooh! Deliciously macabre, with an ominous hint of Jeckyll and Hyde about it. Love it!

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Wonderfully gruesome!

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Kitten Lada says:

    I’ve got goosebumps! 😈

    Liked by 1 person

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