The stars have been corrected; from now on
all twinkles will be synced, repeat at non-
distracting speeds, and standard silver-grey.
And Spring will be induced on the last Sunday
in March each year, to normalise the yield
of joy from sunshine, birdsong, verdant fields
Tonight a pilot scheme
to monitor the contents of our dreams
If only I could recollect
what kind of dream might merit their inspection.
A minute’s silence
Stun your life and drag it to the tip.
Detach the past, your age, your name.
Give any opportunity the slip.
Tell your kids they’ll have to do the same.
Amputate yourself. Be just a grin.
Try scrubbing off imagined dirt.
Harbour petty hopes, then turn them in.
Train yourself to sleepwalk through your work.
Try to make the best of it. Succeed.
Realise how bad the best’s become.
Judge no one, taking note of each man’s deeds.
Resist the urge to reminisce. Succumb.
Get lost, then found. Forget what either means.
Suffer life. Consider being dead.
Aim at neither; loiter in between.
Stand the normal order on its head
then smash your head in. Smash the thoughts inside.
Obliterate the charm, the strange, until
the world as mud brown uniform collides
with where you are just now. Its bitter pill.
Dominic Connell lives in County Kildare and has been published in a number of journals including Magma, Envoi and The SHOp.