Filed under: Dreams | Tags: cops, despair, gender, pain, sex, sex toys, sexuality, sperm whale, stream of consciousness, violence
the friction between my yin and yang do not give off sparks the grindings are utterly corrupt the putrid wastes of veal remains for I am a young soul full of worms that give the robins red beasts in the spring like nipple clamps squeezing them out 7 hearts 2 brians hermaphridite lemmings lust for death in the hands of the boy wonder’s leotards the birds grab his feet and pull his legs off one pant at a time we are born through the composts of time out of the spandex and in to the fire in times like these you have bend over and pick your self up by the boot straps index fingers hooked in leather stumbling forward prime shank to be fucked or kicked the jocker’s dildo is shaped like a boot, and tastes like your initative. Continue reading
Ben writes:
1. I’m producing the next BERZERK!!! show, but instead of going to the theatre for the ONE DAY of rehearsals, i decide to go to a hotel with my girlfriend, watch a Jim Henson film marathon, eat dry cereal out of the box. I finally get to the theatre 5 minutes before the show is supposed to start. I then have to run a long list of unknown light and sound cues on incomprehensibly newfangled equipement (a sound system merged with credit card machine). I fuck it all up and everyone, cast, crew, audience, walks out on the show hating me. The newpapers are uncharacteristically thorough in their reviews (as in they acknowledge our existence at all) i am miserable. Continue reading
B. Marcy writes:
I’m standing in the middle of a hallway. It’s a hallway similar to a set out of the movie Toys staring Robin Williams. The floor is not flat but a rolling series of hills made of that fake grass used on mini golf courses. The walls are gray.
I turn and walking down the hall is my homecoming date from high school. She looks like a social repressed librarian dressed in a gray skirt with white Oxford cloth button down shirt and gray wool jacket: Black nylons and black shoes. She’s wearing her hair pulled back with heavy rimmed glasses sitting on the edge of her nose. Continue reading
I am surrounded by color, held really, in a bed or nest of color. Oranges and reds and yellows. Burnt and brick and brownish. All around, pressing me,caressing me, on me. Defining my shape and size. Getting tangled in my hair. Some of the color is light, translucent shifting in brightness. Alive. I am floating in it, completely buoyant. Some of the color is solid, unchanging. opaque. Wrapping and swirling around my legs and arms. It is soft, warm and comforting and silky and smooth. Like ribbons, it feels nice. I am suspended and supported in these colors, textures and light. Then color wants to penetrate me. I am reluctant …as I have never had this sort of experience before with color, unsure how it would work, technically… the color is persistent and gentle and rather convincing. Soon I am burnt orange, red, smooth, warm, translucent all around and deep inside too. I awaken in wonder and gratitude, still aroused.
I suddenly find myself in a Home Alone situation – I know this from the very beginning, before I see the two bandits whose faces I’ve memorized from scores of hours watching the Home Alone movies. I am in Kevin MacAlester’s shoes. This time, though, there will be no cute-yet-safe traps for these guys. No paint cans swung from banisters, no axle grease on the stairs. If I have it my way, neither of these men will leave this house alive.
It’s daytime. Marv and Harry have come in through the front door. I think they might be sneaking upstairs? I wait around the corner in a room off the front hall, terror in every sinew. (for some reason, I never leave this room during the entire dream) I’m not breathing. I catch myself fantasizing about sneaking up behind one when he’s in a room alone. How will I kill him? Maybe I’ll shoot him? Maybe I’ll jab my chef’s knife into his kidneys? I think I’d like to slit his throat – slip behind him like James Bond, all sex and tenderness and aggression. I imagine grabbing his mouth with my left hand, and pressing my body against his warm back while I slide my chef’s knife across his artery with my right. I imagine my hot breath on the back of his neck, his hair brushing my ear, my beard pricking his cheek. He writhes in my arms, arching his back as his hot, sticky blood sprays all over the curtains like spray paint. Continue reading
Johann recalls:
when i was younger than i am now one of the first erotic dreams that i can remember was lying on a dock at night with a tall stereotypical busty blond bomb-shell, the type of woman or image of a woman that dominates the normative branch of the collective american psyche of what “hot” is. in other words she was completely fake. anyway, we were hanging our head over the side, her hair, and maybe mine, getting a little wet with lapping nighttime lake waters. on the underside of the dock, which was slimy with lake-slime, there were glowing fruit-snacks growing organically like lichen or pupas or something. and we were reaching under and plucking them and feeding each other. i was totally excited, not completely sexually but still that kind of excitement young hormanal actualization in the face of the opposite sex (or not) used to imbue in us as young tribespeople. i was super pumped, as if this is what i had been waiting for my entire life.
Sam writes:
laying upside down in a bed. i open my eyes and see fuzzy people in the hallway outside my room. i try and move, i can’t. she enters, and with a fish lens face says, get up, hitting the ‘p’ with a drop of spit. again, i try and move, i can’t. an older woman comes in, she is looking through my drawers, i notice now that i have nice things. she holds up tampons and tells me in french that i can get them downstairs at the local shop. i notice while i thank her that i have managed to get up, and am now looking in a mirror. my face is sparkling and i smiling at the sight, then realize i’m drenched in my own tears. i look back to the bed where i had come from, it is gone. i look back to the mirror and the old woman, there is a shed. i am outside, i’m okay with this. the old shed is behind the restaurant, you followed me in and put your hands on my waist as we pushed the door open together. i hesitate, you do what you need to and then look at me to cross the room. my back to the window wall, your face to mine. we want to but there is something that holds up back, we address it, and continue on. a hand sliding up my back and pressing me in. shameless and so fulfilled. Continue reading
I dream of dada 