Poetry in Motion

So I was walking down the street in town the other day, right? And I see this big crowd gathering around the corner of Grafton Street and College Green. I was wondering what the hell was going on. It was a rather dull day with that look in the sky that made it seem like it was always about to start raining, but never did. Crowds never gathered on these days and thus I was intrigued by whatever was breaking the status quo. I pushed through the people, many of whom were ugly, and caught a glimpse of the attraction.

Unfortunately, I don't remember anything after that. Next thing I know it's dark out, I'm wearing a purple dressing gown and slippers, and I'm floating on a small rowboat in the Grand Canal. I made my way home and eventually worked out that I had been out for nine hours. I couldn't see any bruising and I didn't feel like I was conked over the head so I was curious as to what had actually happened. The best idea I had was to head back to town the next morning.

I went back to the corner where the crowd had gathered one day previously except now the place was deserted. Completely. That's just not right for eleven am. The place should have been packed. I got to the exact spot the crowd had been and where I had just about seen the spectacle there was now just a big hole. I looked down and it seemed to go into a basement of the nearby Trinity College. The streets were filled with cars but the paths were desolate. Strange.

I jumped down into the hole. I ballsed-up the landing and really hurt my left leg. Damn thing stung for five minutes. It was dark so I whipped out my trusty mobile phone to use as a light source. I couldn't quite remember what I had seen the day before, but I knew it wasn't just a big hole. The basement seemed to be a long, narrow corridor, lacking in headroom. What little light I could produce didn't show me any end to the corridor so I walked. I walked for nearly ten minutes with no end in sight until I fell through the floor.


Hurt my left leg again. I was in some sort of sub-basement. It was no corridor but rather a large chamber with a stone pedestal in the middle. I walked to the round cylinder of rock and shone my Nokia at it. There was text carved into the top of the rock, but it was covered in dust. I brushed it away and was able to make out what the carving said. It was odd to say the least.

Another bed climber's decision.
Expressed fatally -- ghost house.

I jumped, kicked, landed.
My noose opened -- pity.

Quiet rest souls tonight.
Uninvited visitor warned – xenophobes.

Yielding zero.

I finished reading the inscription and I awoke. I was at home, in bed. It was all a dream, but I didn't have any answers. I wanted to know what the thing meant. It didn't make any sense. Then my alarm went off. After hitting the snooze button my mind drifted through the regular morning amnesia routine. What day? What time? What had to be done? What happened recently? Then I forgot about the dream. Completely. It didn't bother me before because I didn't remember having it. I got up, having remembered I had to go to work. Of course, the one question left is:

How the hell did I write this?