Mad little paragraph from two years ago in the middle of the night

You’re going to think I’m mad, but I have dreams, and in the dreams Jean-Michel is ageing. It’s as though he’s living in a parallel universe. And often he’s annoyed that I’m there, he’s like, “Don’t tell anyone I’m here Suzanne. Don’t tell anyone I faked my death, and especially don’t tell the New York Times!” He’s just living a really simple life, in the swamplands of Florida and he sells crocodile eggs. He has this hippy wife and about eight little dreadlocked children. 

I have no recollection of writing, or even thinking, this. But I did so, at 0149, on Tuesday 7 September 2017. 

I like it. Who is Jean-Michel? Who is Suzanne? Crocodile eggs?!

This is a little poem I wrote a long time ago

Beware the Witchpool

From the corner of mine, a witchpool of an eye 

Mako enamel flicks greying slick 

Mandibles' curl with gems gleam

Stolen birds'-egg eye, dishonest, milky-tea white.

White coals glow grey in darkness 

Unwavering, rapier indifference

Unspoken plans undisturbed

'Congratulations', it purrs, the very air malign 

A plagiarised knife-smile, seven hundred and seventy six sinews, all box-fresh, unused

Thanks, a hurried request

Gratefully, the door closes

Wow - what a busy month!

Sorry for the radio silence - really busy making our new house a home. You are almost a year old now, too - what a year it's been. Your pulling-up, standing and babbling are all coming on, too, and you're going to be one tall little boy when you've finished.

Me? Oh, I'm fine, thanks. Trucking on.