/lit/ - Literature

Yeats was in my dreams last night. He was accompanied by some man. I couldn't be certain who. He remained on the periphery of my vision throughout the dream. The three of us sat down together; Yeats on my left and this anonymous man on my right. We sat in the form of a triskele in an Edwardian-styled room. Yeats and I talked and laughed at length.

At Yeats' behest, we took some hallucinogenics. Despite this being a dream, I surpisingly felt high. It was a pleasant and gentle intoxication. The two of us became giddy. I wanted to see if the anonymous man shared our humour, but when I looked at him, all I could see was a bald, sandy blur of a man. Then my mind started and jumped to this chaotic sea of wriggling worms. It was horrible.

I was pulled back to the room after hovering in that hell for a while. I knew Yeats wanted to show it to me.

Before I woke up, this poem came to me:

Holy Ireland?
A sea of worms.
Wriggling endlessly.
Changing colour and shape.
Strangling anything,
Rising above their state.

I just needed to get it off my chest. I think the anonymous man may have be Alistair Crowley.

is anyone here actually serious about writing poesy &/or fiction