Medicated Slumber

In the land of Mirtazapine

Salvador Dali is King.

Time is amorphous

As linear as a spring.

John Lennon is a walrus

Selling used macaroni.

While Lewis Carroll's mustache

Is a tiny albino pony.

Lakes become chairs -

Chairs become dishes.

Meanwhile, M.C Escher is chasing me

Hurling orange jellyfishes.

With its arid, dead climate

The realm of Ozactin's a different affair.

An oven-baked desert

Holding virtually no air.

I was a native of 'Dune'

In fear of sandworms emerging.

Which - given my scoleciphobia -

Was unfairly disconcerting.

When my burnt husk awoke,

After a night under this sun,

I turned on every facet

And let them continuously run.

In the world of Sertraline

The watch is your foe -

You will always be late

No matter how fast you go.

Like the White Rabbit

I was a prisoner of time.

Bustling and scurrying

My unpunctuality a crime.

Every morning on this pill

I woke up assured -

"I'm late!" No - I wasn't.

A mistrust of alarms inevitably occurred.

The dominion of Trazodone

Is one of marital bliss.

At least, that's what I assume -

All I heard was "the bride you may now kiss."

The eternal groom

Forever getting hitched -

Whilst on this tablet

I had a permanent seven-year itch.

Ex-girlfriends. Colleagues.

Asleep, I married them all.

Bus drivers. Tax collectors.

Every teacher from school.

Now I take Brintellix and -

Nothing.

No visions.

I don't dream.

Not at all.

The silence is supreme,

A void into which I blessedly fall.

I sleep.

Sleep.

My somnambulant marriages - so far - number none.

No animalistic former Beatles or murderous sun.

Nor battles against time that will never be won.

(Though - with hindsight - the jellyfishes were quite fun.)

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