There is a rocking chair in your dreams croaking rhythm against the rotting front porch. No one is there, and then there is. This ******-motion picture is an old lady, a young girl, a dying farmer, a corpse, a bouquet of flowers, and then you. But you refuse to look at yourself long. You leave as soon as the veins in your forearms surface.
The walls reek of mold as you step in, and all at once every board splinters out and implodes to a nickel-size spot just six inches in front of you Then it burns itself till the point of a charred cigarette.
“Hug me,” it says.
And you do.
“No, hug me like you actually mean it.”
And you do. You hug Death’s slow-burning dynamite so tight the paper rips off and you are in a desert, surrounded by tobacco. But you hear sheets of rain in the distance, and you can’t forgive yourself for not being where it’s at, and dancing while it washes off the stench of Hell from others. There is a woman guiding you.
She doesn’t exist. So you push her surrealism back into her mouth, and tell her to *******.
Now you are sweating angst. And by God, or whoever—the fear is back.
******* and ******* to calm the beastly sensuality that eats rose buds for the jolly fun of it, that wants to miss work, and plug fleshy holes with credit. Why can’t Day and Night have a middle ground like Heaven and Hell? The Purgatory of regimented time, where guilt is legal, crosses are burned because they represent love, and people are murdered because it’s a religious experience.
And you end up in a box, drinking your favorite soda, and this is real—an odd thing to say to yourself, but it’s true.