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In my dreams
she is a spy,
long and cool,
like a sleek pulp novel –
Mata Hari
or someone Bette Davis played
in an old black and white movie,
and she’s dressed
in impossibly tight taffeta –
grey and smoky under starlight
swinging hips
that could shake down the world.

I see her
sitting on a bar stool,
sipping a sloe gin fizz
waiting for a man
in a fedora to enter
and make his mark
on the world
and her heart.
He will approach her slowly
from behind
and order what she is drinking
and let his fingers
tapping the glass
be small talk
as he takes a seat.

She will pump him
for his secrets –
blue prints of souls
and lists of lost worlds
while she smokes a Sobraine
in a slender ivory holder.

And he will break her code
down slowly
through the long night
under a ceiling fan
that makes the warm air
dangerous,
with deadly calm
and the kind of force
that makes her forget

to dream.

© Brendan Sullivan 2013

*****

Brendan Sullivan is an actor turned poet who has been published in journals and magazines including Wordsmiths, The Missing Slate, Gutter Eloquence, After Tournier, Bareback Magazine, Emerge and Bare Hands.

Speaking of imagery and worlds straight from the Golden age of Cinema, this is a dream-like poem which brings the reader into itself and plays out in front of them. Full of imagery of smoky bars, late-night drinking, spies and intrigue, it draws parallels between this lost world of film-making and the loves and interactions of people. A comment on sex, lust, the mystery of beauty and certain angles of human nature, this is a great, dark piece which we’re more than happy to feature here on Dagda Publishing.

Let us know what you think of this poem by Brendan Sullivan by leaving a comment below.

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