dreaming dead

So I will briefly preface this by saying that one day I found this text file on my computer and honestly had no knowledge of having created it, or when, or under what circumstances. But I am fairly certain that I did write it because it felt quite familiar as I reread it in a deja vu sort of way. I've only done a bit of editing to make it more readable, but that's not to say that it's readable now, only that it's more readable than before. 

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dying blood screams in red on street corners after shootouts,

"Oxygen! Oxygen!"

so soon after coursing through a head

spitting up trails of veins

spit shuttles by my tongue on railways sideways

breathing shuttles dressing up on tank tread muscles wishing for the threshold like a number of reality realization permanence lucid wanderings through the street wishing up a new meadow never rumbles, a tourist attraction slumps on its side for pictures taken by the dead eyes of cell phones pictures never living until the last dread outcome that signals the end of which things?

I separate the colors of retinal perception out and compress them into video dreams:

tape stutters slow shutter

warbling breath in trance

expose luminous breath taking ages of time between

slow shutter blink and strobe light masks the heart of entity creativity

trance stutter revolves like a typewriter simulation screens of flickering characters spread out never forming blundering out of the high threshold of death passing over from the shrill worries of dogs barking Diogenes

waits in his tub for the last simulation to end wake up walking dreams fall and stutter it is inevitable fall and stutter wake break up and walls shut out daylight passing to manipulate the sky with the smog of laziness, breathing in, a fingertip's pulse

the roads of everywhere lead here:

fluttering eye lids gild the edges of sleep and awake

breathing always

I dreamed I, wakefulness fluttering behind eyelids stutter awake eyes themselves, a mistake for the sunrise the glittering cityscape bleeding a tongue of dead red

blood escapes on concrete believes what it wants to be in the ages of self destroying, great apes

on dead cellphones again trying to sleep while awake make mind empty with attachment again,

refill with caffeine and daily news/internet information asylum duplicate

and the sleep on eyelid canvases

ripped through with phosphene traces

occipital lobe flashing with colors

and the waves of color

wait there and see what you will plan to see and flickering they will enhance the jargon of waking

breath your scope sees dead brothers walking and can't stop the ongoing occlusion of the mind

relaxing and sublimating edges of color past eyelids; here are the eyes:

portals true and through

and stuttering color waiting through the passing of threads a passing of all color waiting for the enhancing of time, of light, of the tumescent flesh of white sails billowing the the dark water flashing swaths of moonlit glory and it stops suddenly. It bleeds through the reality waiting there all the time behind the allegories and faster and faster the colors bleed hallucinations onto fingers so fast you can barely keep up and suddenly hallucinations {bleed onto [fingers} can barely keep up on the keyboard] and there in the midst of these waves it's Odysseus again, protagonist superlative

and so come again with me to sit and postulate on the shoulders of the ancients, rather hanging from their armpit hair, if we can be said to see a little weaker than they, but somehow it's better this way?

postulate that somehow that Odysseus was right to set his sails away from Circe and bereave the loss through Poseidon's billowing storms and crunching waves that follow, your men

are all dead billowing and walking out over the surface of moons like islands

dreaming in their death to follow their king unmitigatingly like his own calloused hands and feet, sullenly, sullenly.

A huge misplaced squid breaks out over a new world of less dense air (feeling heavier here) as the ocean breathes out its waves of consciousness cross its unreticulated boundless surface and the tentacled bathypelagic being screams soundlessly in this strange air fluid with its poison beak about the encapsulation, the phagocytosis of all things into one tiny egocentric self system

as suddenly a wakefulness approaches like the twin diamond barrels of a shotgun pointed at faces bleeding already in anticipation and a dead man doesn't know what he's writing on the typewriter of his life narrative and brings himself closer

and somehow the breathing buckles of this time loop are going through his shoe laces instead by that strange coincidence of Gordian knotted mistake we sometimes call the human being, that incomparable misnomer

through the soles of my shoes I trace the envelope of my skin

and busting it wide open on the concrete find the flesh falling out faster than I can say, than I can think, any words at all, just

the pain of wishing for breath

last breath and everything

under the trees somehow someone knew as well and through the shoe laces of

bubbles of time warp flesh through the narrow chasm of life throttles out forward into a bedazzled piggy bank of misused tag lines and stupid sequels

eyes smeared with glass and pastries, thread strung through ellipses hastily

I don't ask if I'm dreaming I only think,

“werewolf trembles craving the skull of time itself”

without an image or an emotion of

profundity when worship begins to overlap with the sad places of always

an ox rumbles with flowing cloth bag over its head

nuzzles your neck thunderously

a god has transmitted his voice into your head

“bring me the hands

of your waking self,

of all the things I cannot do”

this is the most difficult I tell Him who is beyond pronouns

the ox snorts and trembles with the rage of the god who buzzes with the laughter of witches

I ask If I am dreaming

and the voice tells me I am not

even though the fuzzy edges of myself are sleeping in its mirror

I turned away and shook himself awake to ask him again

“who is dreaming here?

who are we again?"

never the trembling voices heard

ears flutter away echolocating like bats

I squint and believe the highest treason is never to look up at the blue sky and wonder if the clouds might do better than before

that the sky might be a little brighter and shame the next day into birthing a lovlier diffuse glow, orange with smog

particulates released by the fleeting actions of plastic packaging combusting, the synthesis

of electronic hearts for a new age of whimpering malcontents

people who don't know the threat which envelops them can be reduced to their interpretation of a single cloud.

It shows a war of the soul within when a cloud is thought "beautiful or grim"

subtly warming with the sun's radiation over and over again like the whistle tune

hummed by smallish birds warbling the tune I heard before the paths my fingers take will become wholly unknown to me as I type more and more

the delete key stands in the corner corralled by my pinky when the time comes and never will any editing ever release the text from the basic error of consciousness itself, from the breath of the lungs to the movement of the fingers themselves

lacking any insight into the situation I beg of you to stop by sometime and blush fresh in the new sun a quiet sort of soul-likeness spread out for all to see

baked goods in garbage bins

they wanted you to see everything

thrown away

shimmer and grind the flesh of sky unwound

skinned lions jump about and shed their blood like writhing helicopter blades all over me, a perfectly reasonable thing to think in a dream I tell myself

carpal tunnel in a dream I tell myself

hypnosis the word itself wants to take you away into other realms I think it wants to take me away now so I say ten nine eight seven six five four three two one zero

zero

generative flesh of mind's eye

begging not to see light

the perfect end of all things

breathing out the city's night

a bum lights a cigarette

bought with the love and joy and shame of strangers

smokes a sudden jolt of excess to pain him from light and always wanting a little more something I sought out from the shelves of urchin madness perishing in Sunday schools

warping out the tracks the elder scrolls manipulate

dream logic panders to time only inwakefulness

real dreaming has no causation, no time.

Poseidon curses arbitrarily

waves mount and shrug

in winds that travel into their own paths

cyclonic in their set structure

shuddering forward in the stop motion of the gods' perceptions

ten men crew the deck

a war boat captained by a clever bearded Greek weaving his way home steadily, bewildered by the changing landscapes but never truly lost

only momentarily captured by the curse of his gods

the bow breaks but the stern stays

the carved mermaid mast swims again

buoyed by the shrugging waves

still searching for Odysseus

ripples embarking from Poseidon's den

from his horse's webbed fins  

soaking up myth with tumult

a vision of Poseidon himself amiss on his mount

searching for the tribute due him from holy treason, from a superior man's awesome hubris

but the ocean's rage was eventually stilled, easily placated by his wanderings, forced to take only a supporting role in Homer's chronicle