I sat at the desk. The clock had already passed midnight; the witching hour. I felt a poem bubbling in my throat. Something that had to get out. The field of vision was unstable, just like my fucking psyche. I woke up at 22:00 that same day. The circadian rhythm ruined in glitter-like shards. A cup of tea with honey was the taste that followed her in thought as the discs on the inside spun imaginally. This was not surrealism. Autodidactic word-flows in autonomist language-waves. A displacement had taken place where she no longer resided within herself. Subjectivity wandered between meta-questions about her own obsessions and what kind of machinery the imaginal discs were.
They were about to have sex. They stood at the edge of a football field and the sky was blue. The sun on the neck illuminating the dream-being’s porcelain face. Only as a monster could she have sex with women; as an androgynous non-human. Sexuality bore wounds of heterosexuality; with men she was woman, with women she was a kind of post-man. Perhaps the subject of Übermensch, who the fuck knows. But the thought struck her: “This is a dream. Is sex with dream-beings just a kind of masturbation? To what degree is consent required?”
“What are you thinking about?” asked the young woman and tucked her hair behind her ear. Far too much of a normie to even grasp the dreaming monstrosity that stood before her with the sun burning on the neck.
“I’m thinking… Do you have experiences? Qualia, I mean… Do you feel things in first-person?” the monster replied.
The dream-being stopped smiling. And the dreamer felt how the dream-body vanished into the waking-body. Sank through the whole of reality down into the bed and out of Sandman’s stronghold. She was invaded by angry shadows; beings that now attacked her in the room from a childhood scenery. It smelled of madeleine cake and in paralysis she managed to interrupt their assault on her body: “Hey, shouldn’t we just dance instead?” The whole dream-world became a rave that soon died out into an awakening.
But she never got an answer to her question.
The words she got down on paper felt more and more like their own. As if she was never really an actor in the writing itself. The language, more precisely her own language, felt more and more alien to her. That was perhaps why she slipped from first-person perspective to third person. Her own words were her golem. A kind of abomination that demanded human sacrifice and blood. Her blood. And on the very language itself zombie-God read aloud: אֱמֶת
hetvic
you were once an obsession, made into dust
we realised you had left us, you broke our trust,
for all our lust culminated into us, taking over
a confession, quick, before we turn the entire fucking world into rust.
hetvic
a chick with a dick, tick, tick, tick
before the boom-matchstick licks the entire fucking world into an
amnestic broomstick reading beatnik poetry on a napkin-picknick
ice-pick in the head reading thick lipstick on your mannequin lips- (Freudian lip-slip)
throwing bricks with slapstick comedy kicks through the window of
your nephric vomit; this is it!
you're homesick, ready to bootlick in order to noclip yourself out of
nostalgic love and romantic carnival masquerades
betrayed, yet afraid of what is to come
begone! (she says)
flayed in a maize field, more like a grenade-filled pit of disarray; a phrase spilled "Monday" on your bloody valentine's highway - not today! not today you ain't!
Fuck, it is alright; just turn off the lights, cause -
Yuck, it's a cockfight, going alright, tie that bowtie tight while you let those wild cocks die
it's a tie, well, guess it's alright; you can't win every fight
Just don't let yourself smell that bad luck, cause-
we'd love you to continue to fuck - no fuck - we meant,
to write.
xoxo
your own patois
P.S.
What you do with it is your own damned fault.