I dreamt of standing in the centre of a room,
howling women whirling around and through me,
with fourth-dimensional bodies and smiles
that didn't mean anything.
She pointed to the mirror at the far end of the room -
"They are becoming loud. Something is happening,"
and soon I was dead, and she was nervous,
and you left me there in fear and anger.
People don't make any sense - we are elusive,
women hide each other in cupboards with knives,
while men wean children on bottles of glue.
We met at the top of the stairs, and walked together
to the ninth floor, where He had us draw pictures
of our fates - and you were in denial,
and we realised the transient nature of everything.
In drunken mania, we danced to raging techno music,
and this nonsensical thought entered my mind:
You are the ninth petal, of the ninth flower
I have plucked.