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 that are so old and neglected, musty, damp, and eternally gray mold-like and repulsive. You chase up people who turn away, suddenly, drifting away, leaving you in empty places, strange territory, the periphery recorded in your experiences overday, now monuments or landmarks of desolation, capitols of abandonment... and you're looking and looking ... but where to go? what to achieve?
A way out, a last straw of hope that folks, places and things which were taken perhaps taken so granted, so inconsiderate, so natural as food on table and the cyclic dance of the day and the night, won't go down to perish, even if it was but an illusion... and this quest an illusion to the same effect.
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 that are so old and neglected, musty, damp, and eternally gray mold-like and repulsive. You chase up people who turn away, suddenly, drifting away, leaving you in empty places, strange territory, the periphery recorded in your experiences overday, now monuments or landmarks of desolation, capitols of abandonment... and you're looking and looking ... but where to go? what to achieve?
A way out, a last straw of hope that folks, places and things which were taken perhaps taken so granted, so inconsiderate, so natural as food on table and the cyclic dance of the day and the night, won't go down to perish, even if it was but an illusion... and this quest an illusion to the same effect.
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