Monday, February 09, 2015

winding sheets to the wind (a riff of demusing)

one awakes to the awful reality that the dream was not a dream, 
that there is no way out—Madeleine Shine, The Dreamers' Cookbook
denial ain't just a river in Africa—Mark Twain
By the mark twain...—Trad: Mississippi piloting call

in the dream the chemical turns his face yellow removes his hair and teeth it gives him the ability to fly, though weakly—even in the dream he remembers that he cannot fly when waking—
the creature clings close about me like some irritating over-affectionate pet wanting always to 

watching always for a chance
to bite

old friends are everywhere all of them grown malevolent, suspect—our hair is long, dark red, matted we do not know our reflections over it all a sense of dulled panic the dream figure represents sickness he wakes with its sweet slick like poison all down his throat his face stuck to the sheet with some syrup leached from his pores as though the night the bed were a poultice to draw out

evil spirits and allow passage
but something is unfinished

and this dream, like the other where he recalls the murders the concealment of corpses will come again, again by the mark twain, the mark pain, the creak down the lane behind the wall the call
behind behind the counterpane we remember this from when we were ill as children.stop

ill as children.stop


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