Thursday, 7 March 2013


Fearing The Salute


Maybe I had been reporting, verbally


A football game, in dream’s labyrinth of coiled, misted tunnels and illusions,

From whence I emerged,

Bags suspended from cold fingers,

Into an hotel’s parking-lot, then was beckoned

By a strapping crooked finger and was by a glowering brow urged...


Perhaps views had been endorsed, unusually,


The Austrian’s mind, in dream’s montage of drooped 1970s moustache and disguise,

From which I recoiled,

Children settled in rear seats

Of an outrageous purple convertible, I reckoned;

Thus into an entrapping charisma’s potent souring, I became embroiled...


Pete Ray

March 2013


I was dreaming this. I had reported on a soccer game, in some form or other, left an hotel and was walking, bags in hands, across a car-park, when Adolf Hitler, in 1970s attire spotted me, appeared to accept my fair reporting on a German loss and offered me a lift in a low dark-purple sports car, which changed into a Berlingo, oddly, then immediately back into the fast auto. Two children were settled in the rear seats, then he sat in the driver’s seat but I needed to place my bags in the small trunk of the vehicle, causing Hitler to get out with a sigh, as I pulled his mobile phone from my jacket’s right pocket...

Not the most pleasant of feelings...


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