ancient

In my dreams I sometimes become an animal.
I often dream of growing wings and flying across
the western plains of Melbourne,
cheering at the night pixies in the refineries,
and resting on the You Yangs.
On the cemetery are the blood and guts, and the
golden goblets, and the fruit.
Everything is alive in the cemetery.
The inscriptions are always ancient, and are always
moving.
The Nazi children will try to pull me to their
caravan in the graveyard so they can feast on my
energy.
They are homeless, and they love me.
They are erotic.