1 post tagged “dreams”
For anyone who has been paying attention to this blog, you will know that I have a hankering for haiku. Well, I've decided to try something different today. I will call them Dream Sequences. Make of them whatever you will (that is, after all, the entire point).
It's an amusement park and you're so amused. Hanging upside down in your air lift ski lift aerial view of the sunset strip. And, boom!, with a click and a yank you've pulled the cord and gone done parachuted outta that cat bird seat. If this was a reality show, you'd be the winner, and I'd be the viewer flipping absent-mindedly through commercials featuring you.
Sitting across from me in the dining hall talking randomly about class notes class experiments class wars, I watch your mouth move around a stale biscuit made from an instant mix and a dull cardboard box. I look at your blouse and wonder why you're still clinging to the price tag, and I wonder what's on the price tag, and then I look at it more closely and the numbers are rising and falling like the tiny heartbeat breathing chest heaving breast of man. Only then do I understand supply and demand.
It's Paris in the twenties and you're surrounded by a circus of flappers and freaks. You light a cigarette for each one in turn, and from the smoke rising you detect a lie, a scent of deceit, and in that moment the future clings to you like a bad habit. The one closest to you looks up from her black rimmed spent eyes, and were in not for the mood lighting you'd quickly realize that he had other plans for you. It's a hard, nasty, battered and blue truth.
My ability to decorate is seriously flawed. I look at the walls full of kittens hanging on and raccoons peering out their beady little eyes. What magazines featured these centerfolds and thrust their way into my hands and forced their way onto these walls? Was it a junior high school fund raising subscription drive? Or was it something more sinister? A demon of perpetually bad interior decorating taste? Next up you'll show me a bathroom that features wide eyed drawings of children, or dogs playing poker.
Stepping into the bedroom, the house tips. It tips to the ocean, in the general direction of you, in the general direction of wetness. I can see the tide coming in, through the window, and I think to myself that this would be a nice way to die, drowning in you. But my habit of breathing forces me to step away from the window, back towards the center of the house, in the hopes that I will tip away from you, and in that moment I think "deja vu!" When, rather, you are my deja dreamed.
In the daylight I had seen the amulet, the elephant that never forgets. By night I had encountered the bald man. He tells me that he had an elephant tattooed across his chest, but that the execution was imperfect, and that he had just had it redone, in the form of a chick, only a chick wearing a beard, not unlike his own. I laughed and said that was delightful and suited him just fine. By morning I knew I had forgotten some essential fact of the situation, and tried to remedy the affair by wishing for an amulet of my own.
And thus concludes this installment of dream sequences.
