A monster made of grass, a disgusting wedding present, a Baby Parade. A series of capricious and lazily malevolent authority figures, wielding power with impunity, excused and indulged by teams of complicit functionaries. Awful children behaving abominably; awful adults trapped in physical and emotional cages partly of their own making.
In These Are Not My Dreams…, the rules of the ordinary world are twisted and undermined, as Michael Conley’s writing explores how readily we welcome the cruel and absurd into our everyday lives. Picking up some of the same themes and characters from his acclaimed 2019 prose collection Flare and Falter, these poems hum with an oddball energy that urges the reader to take the ridiculous seriously.
Pre-order copies of 'These Are Not My Dreams And Anyway Nothing Here Is Purple' can be made here.
Michael Conley
Michael Conley is a poetry and prose writer from Manchester, UK. His poetry has appeared in magazines including Rialto, Magma, Butcher's Dog, Strix and Interpreters House, and his first pamphlet, Aquarium, was published by Flarestack. His work has been Highly Commended in the Forward Prize. His prose work has been shortlisted for the Manchester Fiction Prize, and his collection of short stories, 'Flare and Falter', was published by Splice in 2019 and longlisted for the Edge Hill Short Story Prize.
Baby Parade
After Charles Simic
Hope you’re enjoying your Baby Parade, babies!
I shouted as they paraded up and down.
We’re not babies! the little girl yelled.
And it’s not a Baby Parade! the little boy added.
It sure looked like a Baby Parade to me.
Where did they get off, these two, thinking
they could just have a parade whenever they chose to?
The little boy had found pink feathers to wear
and round, green-rimmed sunglasses.
The little girl had a blue plastic bugle. Welcome
welcome welcome to the big parade, she sang.
The dog was joining in, but not with enough focus
to be seriously considered a parade member.
All this, by the way, was contained within their front garden.
And that was the whole parade. Of course it was:
they didn’t know anyone except their own parents.
What is this parade even in honour of? I asked,
but by this time they were ignoring me.
I watched, in disbelief, a little while longer.
Nice try, idiots, I whispered, shaking my head. Nice try.
A Thrill
for J.E.
and as you finish your cigarette
thinking god when is something finally
going to happen in this town
where even your exhaled smoke
seems to cling to the still air
his mossy hand is already gripping
the chair opposite and you nod
for him to sit. What covers his body
and face is a thick green layer
of dry grass. Is this
an art thing? you ask. He shrugs,
rustling like the air inside a conch.
Nobody else is making a fuss,
so you don’t. There’s so much grass
you can’t see any skin, only
the mushroomy whites surrounding
the dark bark-brown of his eyes
and, when he yawns, the delicate,
intimate kittenpaw pink
of his wet mouth. He leans in,
palms flat on the table. They’ve done
an excellent job, you think:
you really can’t see any skin at all.
The smell is dead leaves, snails,
sweet tree sap. I get a real thrill,
he whispers, from chasing people.
Leans back, two grainy brown handprints
either side of your coffee cup.
He looks at you and blinks slowly.
You stand up. He stands up.
