A Chronicle of My Dreams #1

This dream is from earlier, but one of my best dreams:

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My humanoid mount

I was a warrior about to carry out a mission in the Saharan desert and my mentor offered me a mount.  He seemed to have placed food on me because the horse—in fact not at all a horse, but more like a combination of mule and dog, white and flurry and not reaching my hips—plunged into me and started licking me. It turned out that he could turn into human form—a clothed, adorable, somewhat sexless little boy when transformed. Although he was small and his hips were a soft bony triangle it seemed to make him a perfect mount. It was comfortable and he did not suffer from my weight at all despite my worries. So I was ready to go. I felt mingled fear, excitement and dread as I said to my mentor, “I never thought I would be in a life and death situation like this.” In fact I did not fear pain at all—it was established then that being attacked would not hurt—but only the possibility of nonexistence.

Hydrolysis

                   The day Mother’s severed

 arm sailed across

                             the abandoned

                    train station my 

 hopes grew

                    a detonator, my 

                                                lips fell

to my feet.

                                                    Now 

                              four score years

                    later   my religion is 

             abducted  my

                                  hate a plastic 

                      dream   my 

                                          silence

            ten-year-old and 

still growing


The 

                  detonator 

under my skin

                                     hydrolyzed

                   into fear.

Glory

4-The-Tilled-Field-Dadaism

About the ashes we gather

eye-to-eye breathing, the nocturnal stained sheets

colorblind and strewn

messy as we marched, as in our dreams:

badge beneath tongue

summer sun drinking the shaded purple

of your beard.

It reminded us of

 

when your eyes were pierced, black hearts flaming

scared even the bullet as the confetti

sucked at your skin,

sucked your skin dry

Gravitated with greater than tectonic love

while

 

our minutes are roaring,

honey hands transmute

primeval horror of Freudian fourmis

Unleashed.

 

(the words dug like stars into you and

into you)

so we spend all night dancing, sipping

away dreams

black eyes bleached as we write

of Glory, as in

our dreams.