Category Archives: dreams

27: Electric babyland (may offend)

I got lotsa babies in here she says to me.  Her voice comes from the ceiling, but I can see her lips move.  Yellow teeth.  No irises.  On the cracked linoleum floor she stands, in stained sweatpants and a T shirt that goes to her navel.  She shifts from one foot to the other, as if she needs to go to the bathroom.  She drums her fingers on her tight beachball belly.  Lots.  Inside here.  

No smile, though.  She looks angry, crazed.  I lie on the floor, bound and gagged, while stark Tesla trees of pale blue crackle and branch about the ceiling.  She kicks the side of my head with a bare foot, and, just before I black out again , I see her turn and walk down the hallway.  My swoon is only seconds, I think,  because I hear the sound of someone peeing.  Then a flush.

The slap of bare feet comes closer and she reenters my room, this time wearing only the T shirt.  She squats and bows her head, greasy hair dragging the floor.  There is no moaning or groaning as she gives obscene birth.  Only the repeated sounds eck, eck, eck.
Small wet things dangle and drop.  Sharp yellow teeth, no irises.  They tear at my restraints with piranha frenzy.  I gain my freedom, but am paralyzed in stiffness and horror as they set upon their unwilling mother and begin to eat.

 

26: Fluids ***GRAPHIC***

On the tilted table I lie.
Sore arm injected with serum.
Paralysis abides.
In the dim, I see tools
hanging, dangling,
clanking in the vacuumed wind
of a swiftly opened door.
And, in walks DeSade.
Aye, what will it be today?  says he.
(From his trouser belt hang more questionable instruments.)
*He pushes a little trolley with silver trays on it*
Aye, the sutures have healed remarkably well!
Let’s see, how many toes have we left?
It’s too too bad, we ran out of anesthetic last week.
Oh, but look!  Eight fingers, two thumbs!
But don’t worry, we won’t remove any of those today.
I’m a man of my word.
But I do have bamboo, for you, hoo hoo!
(On the silver tray, shaved wedges of wood, a tiny silver hammer which he picks up)
This used to be Maxwell’s you know.  Hah!
What about a little cleaning of those dirty fingernails of yours?
*I piss myself*
And, for dessert, it’s the bolt cutters again.
(A moan escapes me, unarticulated.  I taste the salt from my nose and my tears)
(I wish, I wish they could paralyze my eyes as well)
*My moronic scream as he drives in a wedge, right down to the quick*
Then, swiftly and deftly, he grabs those cutters of awfulness, and CLACK!
The spray of my red life blooms on his clean white apron.
I see my mother in a cloud.
I pass out, in radioactive pain.

The gathering

In the late fall morning of frost and fog, they came. Many without even their coats. Little ones in borrowed rubber boots. Women still in nightclothes. None could put to words the why of it. Each were surprised by chance meetings with fellow walkers, as their ranks grew. All had a sense of quickening excitement.

D0u3bhOW0AAFB4W

They knew to gather at the tumble-down wall of stone, built by men in ages beyond their memory.  At seven of the clock, with the warming sun beginning its climb, they heard one who spoke to all.  In his words, they were called good.  The ones who had kept faith.  Now, they were to prepare, for they were to be saved.  Five days after the first snow, they must send a messenger to the Wide Wood, to speak of their readiness and hear what they must do.

There were three sisters who lived apart in the land.  They were known for their mercy to the poor, and for their tending to the sick.  In a meeting of the townsfolk, they were chosen to be the messengers.  The first snow came and stayed, and, in the time left, they went about to the houses of home, helping with what was needed, and blessing the people.

On the day appointed, Ilona travelled long by bicycle.

D0u3tnoXQAA2gOm

Irina and Ingrid walked apace, for they were close to the wood.  They had never strayed long into the forest, and were in fear of being lost in the gloaming, when they heard Ilona’s voice calling along the cool evening air.

D0u3Yc0W0AA1oJj

By a standing stone, evening-lit in a mushroomy glow, the sisters were well met at last.  At seven of the clock this November night, they held each other’s hand, and put their faces to the stars.  They sang a song of readiness, their steamy breath rising in the lime light.  Their angel was revealed, and sung to them of surety, of the sadness of the world, and the madness.  On the morrow, they would receive a sign.

D0u3lo2X0AAZbkf

paintings by Aron Wiesenfeld

25: Go ask Alice

mmm..
was it that hot dog I had off the coffee truck?
wrapped in plastic
smelled a little funky
ate it anyway
found a peanut, found a peanut
found a peanut last night
dee leery
del eerie
delirium I am in, that’s it
-why are my toes so far away?
cords of gristle connecting to ankle pulleys
oh man
gotta gotta get outa bed
I have too much juice
-where’s the floor? there’s only an escalator
always a scared of those things, no confidence
-does my Auntie dote on me?
-hahaha what is the antidote?
step on the steps, fool
move your legs in the proper rhythm
oh geez here we go-
but I am too speedy
the escalator must be stopped for repairs
and I do a smashmouth on the doorknob.
oh momma momma this is real
one tooth too short, the rest is up my nose
bright blood on two of my hands
take away take away show in the light
this must be the antidote
it is a technical knockout
bye bye

The planting

I had to support his brain as he disembarked, leaving the ship’s queer gravity. He was their monarch, born one in a billion. Emblazoned on the pale pink of his forehead was a galaxy with named suns. I have never become used to his elongated cranium, its soft translucent skin revealing a venous pattern of blue, purple, red. I felt his people’s deference to him, and was honored to have such a place amongst them. As rehearsed, the retinue bore his chair to an area of scorched earth. In vestigial hands, he held a vial. One of our number, using a cylindrical instrument of contained heat, neatly extracted a deep core of earth. Then, the Lord let fall his treasure. With ceremony, the core was replaced and tamped down. An attendant brought an urn of liquid and poured it out upon the site. In my third ear, I hear There will be plenty. And, at the last, You too will be of plenty.

You see, I also carry a seed.

Dream twenty four: in the funnel

I lean in from a cloud,
spying this lake of slate,
in the never evergreen bush.
The sunny side has big boats three,
yachting this shiny blue day.
Merrymakers loll on the decks.
Shapely girls lean out on the prow rails,
icons of the Titanic.
I hear their cries and laughter
over the gulls.
In my monstrous vertebrae I feel,
from southern climes,
the approach of electric grey,
with green barely seen.
No weather master am I,
and so I take a lungful of fluffy steam,
stadium-sized,
to blow a Southwind warning.
On deaf ears it falls.
They jeer at the momentary gale,
for I cannot blot the sun.
And then, the sounding storm.
The waters riddled with rain.
They scurry like aimless ants,
furling sails.
The stormfront’s infantry:
three vacuum funnels,
all of contrast sharp,
all of bright chrome.
Slowly they revolve at the outset.
Then, of a sudden, they part ranks at speed,
like silver balls released in a trice
by pinball plunger.
I fear for the fate of the four score on deck.
The spouts harass the boats,
like bothering bees,
and there is much terror and clinging.
They do a devil dance,
then congregate, as if by design,
at the North’s sandy shore.
Stay, they do.
The mile long lake they suck and spew,
into the clouds, as fine as dew.
And the sailors of the weekend?
Their upright ships do gently rest
at lower elevations.
Stuck in the mucky silt of centuries.

This thing

He waits for me, each night,
of late,
in the cottony caves ‘twixt longer dreams.
The script:
I’ll be born once more from ectoplasm,
and flutter down on nightwings,
like settling leaves in the cease of the breeze.
He knows I come.
That I can’t stay away.
But I always wish to startle him,
so I slide,
a form of translucent grey,
across his stalactite ceiling.
But he smells me
and smiles a slow smile.
Bovine, feline, canine by turns.
In the voice of The Rock Biter, he says
PULL UP A CHAIR.
Of what form will he be tonight?
Sometimes, we play the name game.
Threenight ago, he was ratlike, but stood erect.
In his black top hat, he spoke sneering syllables,
saying he had eaten five pies and I was to guess his name.
His scaly tail twitched and whipped,
and his sharp yellow teeth champed at the bit
until I said
nimmy nimmy nit not, your name is Tom Tit-Tot.
His eyes grew wide and bloodshot,
and he reached forth with chickenfoot hands.
Screeching in the rat language, he ran about,
like a balloon let go and blubbering out its air.
And impaled himself upon a stalagmite.
I went home.
Just last night, he was all in white feathers,
and was duck-billed.
He wore a blue vest with brass buttons,
and had a sailor’s cap.
I said Where are your pants, Donald?
Whereupon he let out a loud quaaaack,
and pounded on the table.
Whereupon all things bright and beautiful winked out.
And tonight?
Ah yes, tonight.
I must tell you this, writing as it is, from the Seventh Circle.
Tonight, I parachuted as usual, down from his spiny ceiling.
All is damp dripping darkness,
but, in a far corner, there is a golden light.
I hear a rhythmic squeaking, and someone hums along with it.
There sits a small creature, sitting on a stool beside a spinning wheel.
Piles of gold surround him.
PULL UP A CHAIR!  it says.
We’ve much to discuss!
Topics of import, like
is tea better than coffee?
is an apple better than an orange?
what happens to a bubble if it is left to float undisturbed?
if you collect the powder from a moth’s wings,
can you be made to fly?
We mull it over.
Prevaricate.
Debate.
But, it is tiring, discussing such worldly things.
There are no clear answers.
We begin to yawn widely, ready for the second sleep.
I say By the way, you look a little rumpled tonight, Stiltskin.
Whereupon he takes off his pointy hat, throws it at me,
and stamps with one foot on the stony floor.
Our world bursts asunder, and our feet go from under.
Into abyss we tumble, grabbing and grappling,
but all is gossamer.

If I should die before I wake

Shocked out of brooding dream
and evil education.
A match is struck, a flare of bright sound.
It brings semiconsciousness,
but illuminates naught but contrived shadows.
They make weasel movements,
peeking obscenely through the blinds of the high up window.
What are they, eh? What are they?
In sudden fear, the tongue cleaves to the palate.
A scrabbling is heard within the false ceiling,
as of excited crabs in legion, far from the sand.
Transmuted, by faithless imagination, into spiders’ horde.
They spill through crevices and knit
a shawl, a caul, a shroud.
A sack of suffocation.
Adrenalin’s injected into a mortified heart.
Too much, it seems. It runs apace,
pursued by a murder of crows
and the blackest of harpies, whipping them on,
but fading. Faded by the day.