Archives for posts with tag: dreams

Day and night never end or change.

A continuum of consciousness; sleeping awake,

awake when sleeping; a twilit citizen

in a kingdom

of perpetual half-light,

a nebulous reality.

 

Unknowns—dreamed up

phantoms fabricating

dread delusions—circle above,

vulturous, waiting to land

and tear off strips

of solar resolve,

 

whilst I wait, fettered,

for the Dawn

to finally come.

 

They told him,

‘You are more than good enough.’ They said,

You are worthy

of your own acceptance’. Belief in those words

sated him, and his vacant heart, but

it lay in wait, that

 

skittish horse, invisible, universal,

always walking

in front of him, reins tied

to ropes

to his stomach, knots loose, dictated by

his heart, connected

to that skittish horse.

 

Time passes, his heart filled,

dreams and reality

poured in, a concoction unheard of,

unique,

rare,

real; the change sent unguarded vibrations

down the line, it bolted, that mare,

and those ropes stretched taut,

those knots tightened, pulling him

through lives and places,

hearts and minds,

ruination to him.

 

Yet whispers of words calmed it,

stopped it,

and the hands of those words

untied those knots, as he struggled

to stand and survey

the wreckage in his wake.

Heartbreak awaiting, guilt

abiding, he turns and witnesses

the intangible carnage, defeated utterly.

 

They told him,

‘You are more than good enough.’ They said, ‘

You are worthy

of your own acceptance.’

 

They lied.

 

 

midnight machinations pulled her into

my sphere

where Life spelt hope with thoughts, maybe dreams,

grandiose yet filling, abounding, swarming;

she filled the cup of want on levels too many,

words of ideas spewed forth, a biblical deluge

gurgling from a well-spring dry before that midnight

 

intertwined in physical communion

explosions to dwarf Pompeii

soul’s alleviated beyond the veil

bodies new, fertile

discovering without direction

the night watched, the night knew

celestial gratification.

 

after the fall: the well seems dry

bone dry, Gobi, Simpson, Arizona, barren

yet rain falls, drops of life, fuel;

alone, isolated, content

that muse, she has left, riding smoke shadows on the breeze;

she is gone and I am here

and I kept it,

that thing she helped me find.

 

  • Henry Miller and Anais Nin have a chat about dreams and whatnot, discussing the importance of recording your dreams. Apparently, Miller taught himself to wake up out of a dream just to write it down. Sounds like a lot of effort.

 

  • The Art of Fielding by Chad Harbach is a 2011 release I’ve wanted to read since it came out. A novel about baseball. Winning! This review in The Guardian only makes me want to read it more.

 

 

 

 

  • Are 3-D films about to grow up? Michael Cieply thinks so. It could make The Great Gatsby Baz Luhrmann’s crowning achievement.

 

  • So, I was watching SNL last night. The episode from 1996 when Jim Carrey hosted, in his Ace Ventura-Mask prime years. And I lost my shit when I saw this sketch.

 

SDH

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