8/22/08 Dream Sequence

8/22/08 Dream Sequence

When Curb Services Seize An Unsightly Strychnine

Scene I- Intestinal Nomenclature
Setting: Cobblestoned alleyways that cleave and trisect a European-style bazaar
Persona: Unidentified (1st Person)

I stumble out of an intricately hand carved wooden pod (resembling a traffic cone).
I reassure myself that I was “Just Napping” although I’m quite sure the vessel is a coffin belonging to someone called The Crawl.

My hands and forearms are riddled with thin splinters that I soon discover wiggle deeper into my dermis if they’re tampered with.
My attempts to remove them are interrupted by something that crosses the path of my peripheral vision.

A Beaked figure in a dark cloak festooned with translucent tubing filled with a violet fluid jumps around whimsically as if playing hopscotch.

It is unclear at first, if the figure is a man wearing a pointed mask
(reminiscent of the Venetian plague-doctor) or is actually some sort of humanoid bird hybrid.
My vision is tainted by a grain of orange juiced sepia; objects that decorate this narrow and winding backstreet ark and spiral toward its hourglass body-type.

The delicate churning, writhing, and twisting of solid objects sparkling as they contort into serpentine bands of rainbow bring to mind Van Gogh’s Starry Night.

This dream is almost completely devoid of sound.
Only the dull vibration of refrigerators and the clicking of computers can be heard,
and even they are barely audible.

The bird creature stops jumping and hobbles around 180 degrees to get a good look at me.
It’s torso lowers itself to reveal several sets of fishnetted women’s legs some adorning
high-heel shoes, some wearing long boots, others barefoot.

These many sets of legs move in rhythmic patterns as if set to silent music.
They articulate in a fashion completely inconsistent with the placement of joints and logic.
It is as if these legs lack bones, for they squirm like the tendrils of an octopus.

Scene II- Acetylene Tramp Lamps and Ultraviolet Lights Find Gods Hands on the Quarantine
Setting: Mighty uterus
Persona: Something fish-scaly (3rd person)

Something chants “Plug in and Disconnect!” over and over and over again.
A dull emotionlessly incessant 4 word mantra.

I can see through a glass window installed in the pink and internal walls of my holding area,
A tall woman with a misshapen crew cut, pouty lips, and Sicilian eyes says something like
“Don’t remember if it hurt, its like _____________ but certainly unlike jackknifing.”

Five year old laughter can be heard, but the source is unclear.
My slimy body caudal begins to descend down a fleshy chasm that hugs and envelops me.

The ridged walls massage my body as it locomotes my semiconscious mass foot first toward the laughter.

“Yes” uttered by a whispering female is the last thing I hear before waking up.

It is a Friday morning 7:10 A.M. the time I’d be getting up for work, but today I’m off.
I get up and fix a glass of hojicha.