by Mathew Gostelow
Night.
Full moon’s projector beam cuts through black air.
We dream of David Lynch’s hair.
Movie screen silver,
picket fence white.
Thick as a forest and
rippling deep smooth waves,
like fire dancing slow, velvet curtains.
Shrink bug-like in those ghostly woods and wander.
White light flickers zoetropic –
strobing glimpses through the in-betweens.
We lose our way and cross over a threshold.
Trouble dwells in darkness,
thrumming electric underfoot.
Mathew Gostelow (he/him) is a dad, husband, and fledgling writer, living in Birmingham, UK. Some days he wakes early and writes strange tales. His stories and poems have been published by Lucent Dreaming, Janus Literary, The Ghastling, Ellipsis, Stanchion, Cutbow Quarterly, voidspace, and others. He was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2022 and has won prizes in contests run by Bag of Bones Press and Beagle North. You can find him on Twitter: @MatGost.
