believe me, even i want
to wake up from my dreams,
i wake up, and have these hallucinations
or being a spectator,
in a game of pawn v. king,
or a cat v. mouse...
    and, every, single, time,
i want to wake up...
   the whole macabre feel of them...
it's puritanical horror,
a man strapped to a chair...
and a drill, pulverizing his cranium /
piercing hos cheeks while
attempting a make-shift
scene from an escapade in dentistry...
the ******* scenes are so...
bleak... that i want to wake up
from the nightmare...
but then, when i do,
i take myself to charge into
a forest... blacker than the shadow
of death, growling, screaming,
throwing *****-fits of about to
melt accusation in the form
of heaped dung over the corpse
bravado...
           and the whole affair,
culminates in a taste akin to:
     powdered sugar...
           with a raspberry, piquant
extract of concentrated juice...
     finger-licking-good ma'am...
oh but i know i'm the protagonist in
these macabre dreams...
that's why i play the role of some
casual spectator....
   i'm always in the ******* gimp
suit of wanting to wake up...
the horrors i've seen...
        it's not that couldn't be deemed
the lord of infinitesimal if i didn't
dream terrible dreams...
           the spatial confinement is
but one aspect...
   the fact that i see the chief,
the protagonist... and he's me...
         and i'm not him...
and i see what becomes of the seen
but... the contraceptive of
potential?
        and the fact that i'm always
wanting to wake up?
              yet at the time dragged down
into the **** of images
eating out my eyes?
  the chair, the hammer, the drill...
the pseudo-dentistry tactics?
    about now you could be the person...
peering at your shadow,
and finding the same shadow,
borne with eyes...
in the land of sleep...
  to the minor venture of
Narcissus peering into his reflection...
Kant would have said...
to peer into the shadow,
is to allow the shadow
to let you peer into the cinema of
sleep with, more clarity than,
you'd expect to be nothing more
than some bogus demand for
a roller-coaster;
first comes the staring match
with the shadow,
which elevates you to dream
with an eloquence that
disregards dreams as stupid
entertainment outlets...
then?
           the stare into the mouth
of death...
            a composite of,
and a disunion,
                 culminating in
the rattling, gnashing jawline of
Hamlet...
                 with every dream,
i wake up, "knowing"...
that i'm not the monster i've
had the uncomfortable presence
to be encompassed with.