Pat Jones

Ay, There’s the Rub

by R. S. Clay

I dreamt last night that I had gone to hell
and that my punishment consisted of
having to listen, for eternity,
to strangers telling me about their dreams.

One told of wading blind through freezing streams,
his eyes plucked out by a descended dove;
one dreamed of falling, one a tolling bell,
and one unlucky soul had dreamed of me.

She said she’d loved me, and we’d made love, meek
as missionaries, nary a pious squeak
from the immortal coils. But as we kissed,
a violence came — I pinned her, neck and wrist,
I bit her tongue — her cunt clenched like a fist —

         — She woke, and woke me, and began to speak.

R.S. Clay lives in California. His poems have appeared in online and print venues based in Australia, Canada, the UK, and the US.