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
Whitney dreamt on 2/16/09:
A circus act, I am up on stage- up high- I know i must get on a red and white stool thing with bouncy pads for us to stand on and bounce. All the pretty, sexy ladies know what they are doing on their stools up there. I am new at this, never done it before. First time. The white bear who is a real bear but somehow does not seem like a polar bear is front and center stage on a similar stool stand red thingy. I am instructed to go stand on the stool near the bear, because I am new so the new girl has to go near the scary bear. What is supposed to happen? What am I supposed to do, I wonder. Am I supposed to jump and go near the bear- who is now standing up and looking at me from his red stool bouncy thingy. Is he gonna eat me? Maul me? Hurt me? Is that the trick they are all waiting for? My outfit is tan shorts and a big tank top and everyone keeps telling me it is not sexy enough. Everyone else was wearing red sexy circus numbers. Next time I won’t be so new at this, I tell myself, and I will know the trick and I will have the matching outfit, next time- if there is a next time, if I am not the trick. Maybe next time I will know what is going on? Now I’m in the bleachers with the audience and my best friend from high school is a few rows ahead of me and my sister is a few seat over from me, but across the aisle. She’s sitting with her co-workers/ her staff- they are mad she forced them to come to the show. They leave to go shopping in a big city like New York.
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.
I dream of dada 