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Lou Doillon Poisson Rouge Nyc
Phantom Bloke

9 APR 021

Wherever I come from initiating this dream is of no importance. Previously what has been alien chatter and blurry vision halts on this scene. 

I find her in my bed. Like an elderly guest who is given the best spot in the house for a pass of ease and comfort out of respect, she is in my sheets, musical yet still.

As I enter the room, I am in the netherland of shock and apprehension, should I make myself noticed? A little cheeky cough to clear the lumps in me throat? 

Fast asleep in her own pastoral air, she doesn’t twitch at all, when I slip into the room imitating a note. 

Come untangle the circumstance that lands her here, in the most intimate proximity to my bones. Come and witness our impossible intersection, for I am recounting a dream about a girl whom I saw only once. 

Darkness cast, and a massive blanket, I can’t fully see her. Yet, how do I know this figure is none other than Lou? 

Her countenance is partially eclipsed by her impassible hair, my impression is that she often uses it as a shield for spotlights and the gaze of scumbags dying to penetrate her public persona to extract lustre. 


I direct my upper half towards the edge of the bed, my legs must be roaring waterfalls. Am I nervous as a boy reaching for the top shelf magazines? I freeze on the last inch that reveals the angle whereby she is visible. Identification of the only woman I carry as a mirror. Over the last decade I came to recognise and care about her creative solitude, for it is my own.

At this moment of recognition, a salient century passes. I am bent like a spoon in the grasp of a telekinesist over her bed. She is still reposing peacefully. Where do I go from here? I couldn’t wake her up, we aren’t friends. Even though, she might remember me from her gig at the Poisson Rouge in New York, what the hell could a stranger do? It is typical. What a boring git am I, even in a bloody dream I am maintaining logic.

So, I flee her like a live wire with sparks of regret and anger. I push myself out in vapour from that mute geyser, fast open serious doors and I exit on to the street of this unknown house, allegedly mine. But, why couldn’t I touch her?

Some dream time passes, unbound by any reasonable organisation of time and space. A parade of subliminal, but earth shattering facts assume the front stage as I find myself back in the room.

Still sleeping, now, she has a baby in her arms. A boatload of alarm clocks kick off in my head, would you like a more concrete projection? 

I observe them as long as it takes to thaw an iceberg on the deadpan of my amazement. She is radiating with all of her vulnerabilities as a mother, but also as a child.

 I love her without a single thought, word, or interaction. Naked with the self.. with defects and defeats, tantamount to the most natural beauty of existence for my humble perception.   

 Under the dome of my poetry and romance, her eyelids shudder, she is clearly having a nightmare.

Suddenly, she wakes up crying, and my vigil ends. Finally! I am there where no introduction is necessary. The brick has flown in the bank, smashing the window.

I pull the sheets, does she sleep naked? All in slowest of motions, my arms march on, she sits in my embrace like a dove. I close my eyes to find her soles to squeeze. Not a single sound is hurled. Our necks wrap around to sense each other’s heartbeats, totally in phase.

And then.. the curtain falls in flames for our first kiss.