SCENES FROM A FRACTIOUS LUCID DREAM

and there are ghosts of grandfather clocks clicking in the background of this dream

and five wolves cloistered in the closet, dangling a doorbell song for five sacrosanct piggies

and I can taste diamond in the back of my throat, melded with a fine corpse cologne

and up through the milk of my cereal floats tiny razorblades, I devour a spoonful

and a band in tectonic coats cast elocutionary spells before lighting their instruments on fire

and in a cathedral made of plastic, the pews fold before a malingered moon

and through a suffocating mist of mourning, I am pinned between spinal aisles

and all is very bright with the brightness of a faith exploding

and in phone booths cluttering an ancient meadow, strangers dial nonsense numbers

and glinting knives like a school a fish swim through my oceanic anatomies

and an attic of bats graft themselves to my steeples, infecting my belfries

and all of my ex-girlfriends gather in my living room

and a battalion of letters engage in trench warfare with numbers

and I clutch a 40,000 volt umbrella in a flash flood mudslide

and I taste the forbidden tartness of a flambéed, crème brûlée lover's heart

and there is a 24-hour foreplay marathon

and a Voodoo Baptism, a Buddhist Exorcism

and I am strung up like a swing set from live power lines

and a greased slide spits me like a child into a sandbox minefield

and my thousand page novel is flung from an overpass

and a pillow case full of snakes is where I rest my egg-infested head

and all the days before I contemplated the concept of eternity haunt me

and all the days before I conceived of 'I' hunt me

and my spirit radar detector runs dangerously low on batteries

and I am the cud methodically chewed between my own poetic teeth

and I am the orgiastic bleeding of these definable fissures

and I am the salivating gaze of these gorged eyes

and there is a portrait of a portrait of a portrait of God I can only view through this narrow straw