Dreams
Hopelessness, futility, "the senses stripped", the black flag planted in my skull (Baudelaire, 'Spleen' ): if you roved around in my dreams, those plagues of recent date, you would find a world of gray chaos, where violence is rampant and sorrow a lucullan feast. The deceased chained to bed filled with catheders,the mental ill sculpt into rigor, eyes in pain, mouth agape in supplication, hurt never erased. Reproach everywhere. Cluttered and stale rooms, halfway buried memories, pygmee goats buttheading you in a fight for domination to show you up, pests scurries around your feet and white-colar ghouls try to claim you into their ranks,always in terms of submission. The Grand Guignol inflicts pain of a psychic order; hope smothered, disorientation and beyond one's wits searching wildly, anxious and yet not defeated, resolute, angry and somehow three steps ahead of the tendrils and suckers, for a way out of this pandemonium. You run through streets and façades tha