The pending police state occupies my dreams.
In a fuzzy shot I am walking the streets
Carrying an armfull of blankets for the doorway beggars and
I pick up a discarded blanket from the street, thrown away
By a passing toga party participant in the
Freshers week revels.
I pause at an Italian restaurant on Pudding Chare, ask the
Owner if I can sit at the bar and drink coffee.
Sipping espresso I notice that the man weaving through the tables
To the toilets has dropped a wedge of notes, enough to feed and house
several people for tonight.
I pick it up, follow him and tap his shoulder
At the door of the toilets. He’s tall, smooth skinned, sweet smelling
With the cheap perfume hints of fresh pot pourri
And pushes me away, snatching at the money, not wanting to be manhandled by a poof.
Explanations fail. He’s drunk, swaggeringly angry.
People like me are revolting queers who want to fuck him in the toilets, he
Knows my game.
He knows the recipe, the mix of acid and peroxide to blow up scum like me.
The weak, the marxist, the perverts, we all deserve to be wiped out.
I grab his arms, the owner shouts he’s phoning the police
I wrestle with him, try to stop him escaping, his anger and
Fury out of all proportion to a squabble in a restaurant over a misunderstanding
Except for the rant about how to make bombs, and the threats.
As we wrestle his trousers fall down, revealing french knickers and stockings
And a reason why he’s just stabbed me with a broken glass, a weakness he
Dare not reveal.
I wake, shaking, convinced my sweat is blood, shocked that
My sleep is divided by the fractures in our world, and
Wishing I never knew what carceral means.