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.

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