I dreamt of a world
in which Chopin was a bricklayer
and Albert Einstein
spelled everyone’s name wrong
as a barista
in a minor coffee house chain
Charles Dickens never ever
put pen to paper
but instead
opened a little nick nack shop
on Canvey Island
In some respects
the world of last night
was not too bad
at the time
I could fly of course
which superficially
seemed quite appealing
but only above people
who seemed rather
sad and uninspired
after talking
to an especially cutting
internet tech support guy
who sounded uncannily
like Nöel Coward.


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