No cedar cools, no seaweed caves,

no fire-dappling sun on a fiery blanket,

come to end these perfunctory endless

corridors of repetition

aboard ship, or in and out

of a town of swimming-pools.


Everything is repetition.

All paths lead to the same impasse,

a visit to the toilet.

There is no hope or comfort anywhere,

no point, purpose or pith.

These are the chemo dreams.


The colours are fancifully pure.

And when I awake, like some

prolongation of nightmare,

the radio reports a first case

of blue-tongue disease,

so that there is no escape


even into consciousness

into which a head may rest

or an arm nestle,

no advance or penetration or issue,

no waking consummation possible

for the chemo dream.