“ . . in my dreams I’m always
running . . ”
Give credit where credits due he
always said while in more instances than
he cared to admit he found people preferred to claim something as theirs until
it was blatantly proven not to be such craven
liars but not until their brilliant sunlight
was shot through with black holes
Ghostpoet
Massive Attack slipped him the
name which he thought was either the name of their new album or a
song from it and was pitifully jealous they conceived of it named Ghostpoet before him only to discover
that it was Obaro Ejimiwes AKA stage name
he was jealous of its concept frankly
how it looked written out Ghostpoet its
spacing its os
and ts that
spoke to him related to his particular tastes(Peculiar is more like it
mate No accountin for tasteeh)
for what it was worth however
Ghostpoet couldnt lay claim to running in his dreams
not the hard running that went
nowhere the mad sweaty running ahead of a horrid tormentor gaining and gaining
on him the hungry beast its hot foul breath at his back his neck its snarl in
his ears the hopeless running dodging side to side fleeing behind barriers
behind this and that to keep something between himself and what pursued him and
out-of-body over him watching himself run and lost despite his every
effort
some startled dreamers wake
rather than take their medicine adamantly starting and realising it still moved
inside them they clasp their hands to their heads No no no no to defuse it abandon it forget it that their
dream wasnt worth anything that it hadnt occurred to them for any
reason(Nonsense mate just a nightmare)
he preferred witnessing the many
ways he was chased horrified and
died
What was one more
he was spitefully curious which one it would be which one would finally take
off their training wheels and deliberately ride him to hell
he discounted those hed gone
beyond his death as a young man
he wasnt young anymore
not
superficially young not physically but also not young or immature regarding the
intrinsic workings inside his head
he struck those pushed them into the River Lethe to forget
if anything
those failed dreams only made
him more curious of his eventual demise(Look at dem eyes hid behind silver
coins a souleater gobbling the food set around his body eating his sins so he
could go to Heaven)
hed have no souleater
his sins if he believed in sin
were his
he didnt believe in Heaven
he didnt believe in sin
he didnt believe in living a life
to the compulsion of others or compelled by or comporting to any teachings any religious
orthodoxy or slender obscure skein
so ". . in my dreams I’m always
running . ." to learn what I can from
them ". . in my dreams I’m always
running . ." to be a good man
1537, Day-between-Two-Ts, 24 8.
16
1138, Thursday,
25 8. 16 Happy Boithday Joel
Ghostpoet Nothing in the Way https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V0az9TZG9i4
