Saturday, July 13, 2013

dream sequences

What happened? Someone painted the bridge pink; all the cars were white with streamers, clunky cans  and 'Just Married' signs, 100 honeymoon cars. A whale tried to cross the bridge but it didn't have legs to walk on. After a while it yelled something and then turned into a giant pickle. The whale was blocking all traffic, the pickle just one lane so cars started crossing again. On the other side was a giant photocopying machine. It was like maybe the photocopying machine had whooping cough, pertussis, but pulsating light was coming out instead of sound. Honeymoon cars were lapped up by an enormous strobe light tongue and pulled into a mouth that didn't look like a mouth; it looked like a photocopying machine. The lid came down on them and flat black cars fell off the side into a pile. Beyond that, the sun was setting beautifully.
Really? No, that was a dream.
* * * * *
I'm smothering a Cocker spaniel with two conjoined pillows which have arm-loops on the side to make them novelty items, decorated to look like pale Teutonic breasts, embroidered areolas, stained-on veins and sequin nipples. There is also a pouch inside which secretes a sticky white fluid. There is no reason to kill the Cocker spaniel, it is a fine dog, there are just so many of them.
We are in an inflatable raft in the middle of half a cantaloupe floating on a sea of ejaculate. Then I realize that our raft is an inflatable woman and we are sitting in the blowjob receptacle. Then I notice that the sun is a penis head. The cantaloupe is the Earth. It has been cut in half, everything destroyed. All that remains is the sea of ejaculate, the blow-up doll, the Cocker spaniels and me wearing the novelty tits.
The sea thrashes all around us. Sperm by sperm, the sea swims into the sky, violently colliding with the urethra of the sun. Then the Earth is dry. The Cocker spaniels jump off the blow-up doll and begin consuming the flesh of the cantaloupe. I kill some, maybe three or four, but there are so many. Oh, I forgot to mention that they are weirdly grapefruit-sized dogs.
Despairingly, I climb the rind of the Earth, perhaps to throw my body into the void at the top. The terrain changes as I climb. At the rim I discover long flowing hair all around the perimeter. I climb down, the hair is like rope to one my size. It becomes known that I am climbing on pubic hair. At the nadir of the outside of the cantaloupe is a vagina the size of my body. It begins to laugh at me. Its labia undulate with laughter. Instinctively, I make the decision, I make the wrong decision, to pass through the Earth's vagina, to discover, I suppose, what lies beyond. However, when I am halfway in, I somehow bump my head on the clitoris and the whole thing contracts and crushes me.
Really? No, that was a dream.
* * * * *
I have a carnivorous plant on each side of my head instead of ears. When you talk to me, they snap hungrily at your tongue. You back away and continue talking. From that distance, your words turn into white powder before they reach me so i have no idea what you are saying, cannot even read your lips through the cymatic cloud. I have very old stones in my head instead of eyes. They are magnetic but not for metal. They shine when you lie and that is when I feed. I have two throats instead of one, and I rub them together in order to speak. When I lie, my heart stops beating and that is when I can be killed so I never lie. We sleep together on a plane of cracked white clay. It is 270 miles between each tree and there is only wind to drink. When your leg touches mine in the night, I bruise immediately and warm milk begins to fill my body. Where your hair brushes my shoulder and chest I am burned and scarred. Your body is hot obsidian and when I make love it I am tanned to leather. My skin  begins to shrink as my organs are swelling. For a moment there is equilibrium and then my insides burst out, to be blown by the white wind for my ears to enjoy the meal. Beneath your obsidian skin, there is a thin layer of gold, then a thicker layer of plasma, and in the center are several maybe 14 small golden suns. They rearrange themselves and that is how you function. Through our love-making, I have managed to extinguish one. Gold becomes brown, black, ash stuck in mucous, disintegrated, absorbed, processed with a belch. Your womb is a volcano and its children are projectiles. Your children decimated the face of the moon and they eliminated all the trees near our bed. Your suns shine for no one and I am proud, even in dying, to have destroyed one. With your flat smooth body you press my remains into the ground; my color fades to white and you are gone.
* * * * *
10 tears collected in a blue-tinted contact lens, cupped in a press-on artificial fingernail, sitting on a used tea bag inside an avocado shell on the corner of a large oak desk in an office whose walls run with invisible blood. When the lightning strikes you can see it, and signs of struggle. She does have a soul somehow, she might end up in heaven. She is but a servant, like Jesus and Jesus Two. The sons of God died, the antichrist has a soul. These people are faith made flesh animated by a soul and flesh can die. Jesus was resurrected, Bobbin might go to heaven; these are the conditions of people.
The desk is warped. Not now, but one day it will be. The accumulation of salt water, the desk is going to remain in the exact same spot until it is no longer a desk and no soul-bearing passenger will have jurisdiction by then. Zap! And the desk is alone in the office. The office is alone in the building, the building alone on the block, the block alone in the city and the city floats in solitude in the pure white flash of the twinkling of an eye. In a pure white rush, down a hill, around a bend towards some source of gravity go a city and hellpless molecules of faith. Their faith is too small. What it is that they believe in and what there is to believe in, out there; the antichrist is a rash, humanity is susceptible skin. Somewhere  out there is a cancerous growth, somewhere out there is the erotic breath of a lover - heat for the back of our neck. Between  there and here, then and now is protocol, the religious trudging across oblivion.
The city is gone before the office, the forests are gone before the oak furniture. Heaven is gone before Bobbin or Jesus Two. A red-haired man, a very small man, 3 or 4 inches tall with an ax spits into his palms for grip and swings at the leg of the desk, what is left of it. His mirror image does the same. The simultaneous strike of the ax blades, like the mandibles of an ant; soon almost a thousand nearly identical red-haired axmen are working on the desk. Each has a tangible mirror image. A cloud of lumberjacks, the desk is nothing, the axmen are gone. The oak has been hacked to powder but there remains the assortment of metal knobs, screws and decorative filigree, a constellation if astrology was still observed. A pinch, a pipe, a satisfying puff of smoke and pass. "We're here because we dream. We dreamed bigger. We tried to remember everything, stored vacuum-packed in our DNA. What is called history is remembering, which is slavery. Free people's history includes events that were never remembered and those that cannot be remembered because they never happened, and dreams. We listened to dreams."
Alan, wake up.