We Who

Dream . . .

. . . in technicolor blood

or black and white that fades to crimson grey.
The seeping blood upon the flaming written page

leaking to the table

when the page begins to curl in smoking ash.
The blood pools steaming red upon the table

and will never go away.

Erase the stain, toss out the table, all in vain
for there it is, slick and steaming on the floor
or cracked and black and peeling

from the god damned ceiling.

Burn down the house to chase away these dreams.
Stand gawking at the ruins to find it is no use
for there the cellar is a yawning pit
where bones now take to rattle

as the winds begin to moan.

Corpses draped in darkness

cannot hide their rotting flesh.

Flesh that peels in jagged strips exposing hidden bone.
The earth
turns in its orbit with that yawning open pit
and it's stinking ghastly grinning corpses,

and shrunken bony skulls

exposed unto the gaze of stars whirling up above.
Winds moan dark and lonely upon the spinning orb.
You shriek out to the heavens

when you know you cannot hide.

The stench of death assails your senses
slender fingers jammed inside your nose.
It has you by the throat as you begin to retch.
Eruption out your open mouth

from somewhere deep within.
Unseen and beefy hands

grip this gushing liquid column.
It is suspended in the air, but it drips.
Droplets form a hollow echo deep into the silence

above that yawning pit.

The gushing briefly stops, suspended in the air
and now you cannot breathe.

You slowly choke and suffocate.

Then comes the yank.

Suspended dripping column, frozen flowing vomit

wrenches forth upon the yank.
Again it stops, dripping in the silence as the mind

seeps out a silent scream, a seam about to rip.

A gentle probing push now sends the column

flowing backward in the mouth,
choking vomit dribbles drip inside the lungs.
It stops again for but a while
and the silence gives a kindly smile,
as if this will not hurt!

Then there's a mocking little twist

tearing at the tender flesh deep within your throat.
The laughter of the silence is a sound you never hear

yet you hear it loud and clear
while a solitary squeak

becomes the scream you cannot shriek.

The column forced back down the neck

with a tremendous thrusting shove
grinding past reluctant teeth, and a gurgle in the throat.
The rushing of the vomit,

forcing backward through your weeping flesh

becomes a roaring in the ears.

Corpses in the corner of the yawning open pit
begin to clap in agitation, demanding only more.
Insides burning fire upon the putrid vomit column

come the yank or now the shove.

Wake pale and panting, palpitating, on the pallet
tangled in the sopping sheets

amid the stench of perspiration.

Insides pouring out, it is the madness

of our dreams.

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