Yet Another Apocalypse Dream
Water keeps covering the world like a caul and there's no sign of let up. My sister, Hope, keeps calling but I ignore everybody
& & &
stepping out of a yellow schoolbus, we walk through water to my crazy landlord's house - he's got some strange hoodoo religion based around harvest and pumpkins, possibly 'cause he lives out in the desolate middle of nowhere. His front yard is a lake that feels gritty when you wade across it to his front door, which opens. He shows his face - a treat, they say, he never does this - but I can't care and wander off
& & &
I'm back at home base, a teetering handmade wooden loft. Our treehouse without a tree. The crazy landlord keeps calling but I ignore everybody. I'm stuck living with a bunch of girls and everyone's hard up for some action. They're putting on crazy costumes from their trunks but all I've got's this torn, half burnt floor length skirt and petticoats that caught on fire when I tried to cook us some biscuits in a skillet. Yeah, I felt a little like Anne Hathaway and was kind of proud, like I was a regeneration. Stupid, though, isn't it, because it's just more old news.
So one gal straps herself into this bright white bustier - and I mean white. I haven't seen white that clean since before the flood. The others hook on these crazy cardboard can-can skirts that they've handmade for some old theater project. And they're off to find some men. I stay home. Even though I can see the attraction, I can't see that it'll help my already teetering consciousness to fuck some unknown, troubled, sex-starved man. I'm beginning to become a celibate, a monk. Can this be a form of religion?
& & &
it's not rained for days yet the water's rising, like the earth is spitting it up. I guess everything's got a self defense mechanism
& & &
as happens every night, about five young men show up and we have our choice between them - but this group's carnival - one's on stilts, the other's in a jester's hat, one's growthpains tall. I don't want any because I can't find joy in their faces
& & &
it's always the same feeling - a resignation - when I hand over the controls to the creator & say, Fuck it, you're the pilot, I got to follow whatever you choose. I give in
& & &
something must be going down not too far from here - the government's heavy duty hover/planes are overhead, too low. Strange, they don't make a sound. A man in a flying bicycle stops and I'm the first to grab the seat - it's kind of like an audition, I suppose, and I have this crazy feeling that at least I'd end up on the moon or something and away from this shit - 'cause we're certainly deep in it at the moment. We're running out of food and mentally I can feel starvation coming on, although the physical effects still haven't hit. Anyhow, I'm supposed to maneuver this seat crazy high in the air while the wind blows all around me, and I just can't pull it together - I'm like a horse on a merry-go-round - up when my neighbors are down, and vice versa. I know I've failed because I'm dropped off back at my loft
& & &
my sister, Hope, keeps calling but I know the signals will fade soon. Water keeps covering the world like a cataract, and there's no sign of let up
& & &
stepping out of a yellow schoolbus, we walk through water to my crazy landlord's house - he's got some strange hoodoo religion based around harvest and pumpkins, possibly 'cause he lives out in the desolate middle of nowhere. His front yard is a lake that feels gritty when you wade across it to his front door, which opens. He shows his face - a treat, they say, he never does this - but I can't care and wander off
& & &
I'm back at home base, a teetering handmade wooden loft. Our treehouse without a tree. The crazy landlord keeps calling but I ignore everybody. I'm stuck living with a bunch of girls and everyone's hard up for some action. They're putting on crazy costumes from their trunks but all I've got's this torn, half burnt floor length skirt and petticoats that caught on fire when I tried to cook us some biscuits in a skillet. Yeah, I felt a little like Anne Hathaway and was kind of proud, like I was a regeneration. Stupid, though, isn't it, because it's just more old news.
So one gal straps herself into this bright white bustier - and I mean white. I haven't seen white that clean since before the flood. The others hook on these crazy cardboard can-can skirts that they've handmade for some old theater project. And they're off to find some men. I stay home. Even though I can see the attraction, I can't see that it'll help my already teetering consciousness to fuck some unknown, troubled, sex-starved man. I'm beginning to become a celibate, a monk. Can this be a form of religion?
& & &
it's not rained for days yet the water's rising, like the earth is spitting it up. I guess everything's got a self defense mechanism
& & &
as happens every night, about five young men show up and we have our choice between them - but this group's carnival - one's on stilts, the other's in a jester's hat, one's growthpains tall. I don't want any because I can't find joy in their faces
& & &
it's always the same feeling - a resignation - when I hand over the controls to the creator & say, Fuck it, you're the pilot, I got to follow whatever you choose. I give in
& & &
something must be going down not too far from here - the government's heavy duty hover/planes are overhead, too low. Strange, they don't make a sound. A man in a flying bicycle stops and I'm the first to grab the seat - it's kind of like an audition, I suppose, and I have this crazy feeling that at least I'd end up on the moon or something and away from this shit - 'cause we're certainly deep in it at the moment. We're running out of food and mentally I can feel starvation coming on, although the physical effects still haven't hit. Anyhow, I'm supposed to maneuver this seat crazy high in the air while the wind blows all around me, and I just can't pull it together - I'm like a horse on a merry-go-round - up when my neighbors are down, and vice versa. I know I've failed because I'm dropped off back at my loft
& & &
my sister, Hope, keeps calling but I know the signals will fade soon. Water keeps covering the world like a cataract, and there's no sign of let up
1 Comments:
Wow. It's so beautifully synaptic and yet, it is so raw and uncomfortable. It was a joy to read. It must be difficult for a woman to find Joy in a man's face sometimes.
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