Michael writes:
I entered the cellar of an old mansion with a team of cat-burglar/specialists. We were there to find something out rather than to steal. I found a stack of old black and white crime scene photos on a work bench. Something horrible had happened here, and the photos that depicted the nightmare were left out in the open as if the events were just a natural part of this family’s story.
Six children had been savagely murdered by a teenage girl. She had killed them and then perched each of them atop a rocking horse. Continue reading
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
John writes:
parked in an old station wagon by an airport or mall the station wagon has opaque windows as though covered with paper. someones with me, Alex? outside there keeps being skirmishes, arguments, little fights I wonder if I should intervene until finally someone’s shooting, “don’t kill him – just put his eyes out – c’mon” and finally I climb on top of the station wagon and can only see the guy swinging the hammer and add to the clamor “seriously, don’t kill him, not here, not on the sidewalk, its ok” before its over I’m driving in a van, someone with me, this time its Alex, suddenly he double-takes “oh shit – my rainbow pumps! 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
[So, a few days ago, we posted a dream by Valerie in which she told us about a Vietnamese woman who is a recurrent character in her dreams. I asked Valerie if she could send along any other dreams she could recall with this woman in them. She was gracious enough to send one back]
I’ve killed someone by accident. I don’t know who it is or how exactly I did it, but the deed is done. The police have come and collected my statement, examined the body, and informed the woman’s relatives. But they have left the body and it’s now been lying outside for several days, undisturbed, as a reminder of the horrible horrible thing I’ve done.
I go outside my house, which is not really my house. It’s more of a movie set, actually, where we are indoors but also outdoors. My house in this dream looks like where The Cosby show was set. So, I go outside and down the steps to where the body is tossed face-down on a long wooden black box. My boyfriend is sitting on the stairs, hanging out and watching. Continue reading
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
I dream of dada 