Dream as David Rees 

Artefact: ‘My Kind of Day’  article on the last page of Gay Times, issue 76, December 1984.
The weather is bad
Pouring rain
Howling wind
He goes out into the minuscule garden
And removes all his clothes

Matthew is at the paper mill
He left his morning sex-embraces early
Drove back across the city
Radio blaring Smalltown Boy
Windscreen wipers frantic
Commuters snarled up in a normativity jam
He slipped past
Harmonising the melody in a falsetto
Taking a different route

Nine o’clock
A quarter to ten
On a regular day
He’d be writing by now
Hideously routine-bound
Putting in the hours
Hitting keys
Lifting weights
Stopping for soup, bread, cheese
An apple

But, now
He’s called outside by something monumental
Hot and hard
A vast stranger in the pregnant clouds
Storm-soaked, bruise-purple
An accumulation of desire
Body bigger than a jetplane
Bigger than the cathedral
A summer tourist
Californian jock
Blown up to meteorological proportions 
Soaring above his head
He assumes
Just behind the roof of his small Victorian cottage
The fantasy body goes on and on
Stretching up
Muscles extending
To push a bronzed arm
Through the steadily vanishing
Hole in the ozone layer
A ring
Disappearing each time
David sprays his body in the gym

He lies on the grass
Breathing hard
Feeling the wet green push against his back and thighs
Head against pot plants
Feet in the flowerbed
His dick erect
Starting to get painful
Eyes, cock heavenwards
A magnetic line pulling all the way
Up and up to the apparition
The shape of vapour
They stay like this
The Dream 
On the ground
Possessing the sky
Until eleven twenty-five
When the dull and predictable sun breaks through
Scattering biceps and torso and thighs
Storm pulling apart the sauna god
Wind chasing muscles until
They become mere clouds again
Sending them
Down the Exe
Off the isles
Out to sea