Dead Bed

I woke paralysed,
a translucent black fabric
bound me to my bed,
a roaring chorus
shouting Dijin, earthquake
over and over
its monotonous
rhythm subsided,
the warrior spirit
on a lace curtain
in the doors
iridescent white
caught in moonlight
smiles at me
and finally I rise.

I walk down the hallway
to the kitchen;
it emanates a greenish glow,
tendrils of lush ivy brush
my bare upper arms,
a creature with ten legs
creeps just up ahead,
I pass bodies lying in transparent
white cocoons on
four post curtained beds.

The creature turns
its face to me,
tells me in my
first grade teacher’s voice,
“Lucky you woke up,
you were sleeping
in a dead bed.”

 

For dVerse Poets Poetics ~ Nightmares

 

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19 thoughts on “Dead Bed

  1. Oh, that is creepy. Great feel to this, wonderfully architected and detailed. I am not sure you are describing this experience, but it sounds like you might be describing sleep paralysis, a common phenomenon around the world. I mention it because I have it too, though mine occurs before I go to sleep. It’s really scary. I have a demonic presence in the room, but Zi can’t scream or cry out. Your poem is excellently told.

  2. damn marousia….that end scene will keep me up all night, you def paint the scene so it is easy to see….the beds, the hall, the ten legged thing…but it is the familiar voice that ices it for me…

  3. this is just great…very creepy…I still have the images stuck in my head right now…especially those giant human cocoons. Love the surrealism here as well- there’s just something so ‘human’ in these night time tales- shows how we are all afraid of something somewhere- and this links us…

    a creature with ten legs
    creeps just up ahead,
    I pass bodies lying in transparent
    white cocoons on
    four post curtained beds.

    love this stanza…reminds me of The Cure- video for lullaby- look it up!

  4. Creepy is the right word. Starting from a surreal landscape, we move through the incongruity of dreams, until that excellent last verse which, anchored with a voice from the real world, chills to the bone.

  5. The peculiar images you draw out, for all their unique savor, yet have the common flavor of nightmare, whose poetic is to grab us by our history and then squeeze the mystery til the juice becomes the disappearing ink the poem writes over. It sears, it fades but it won’t quite erase. I wonder if the poem-scape is best for dreams because so much depends upon what we hear but can’t see, sleepers that we are, our minds in dream like a voice from the old tribal fire. Excellent work. – Brendan

  6. Don’t think I can remember my first grade teacher’s voice, but her face was a nightmare all by itself 🙂
    Yours near-connected your dream with reality again, but not quite. Scary.

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