Then after the predictable stage banter I tuned out completely. We lost our self in a reserve of drunken talk and insipid anger. There were no words we said that had any meaning beyond the most shallow graves. We felt the rain water on our corpses. The red light district in our hearts is a lush village with drunken continuity and foresight. We must muscle the consequences.
Set alarms for future debt. Again regretting the lack of music to fall asleep into. We fell stupid down stairs instead of intelligently through bronze declarations.
In comes the bright, illuminating morning. They shades are drawn and quartered. Is he aware of the country boy mockery? We don’t like each other and it is evident in the angelic voices clashing with gruff and insane tilts when we walked the plank together over that sea of trees. Instead of freewriting, I will now disclose my dreams.
….of the suicidal forest at the base of Mt. Fuji with demons and spirits whispering their evil pleas into the hearts of passersby. Even the ones who are unaware of the myth. The silence here is threatening to the safety of entire colonies of people.
This same evil spirit, like the catacombs with six million dead bodies remaining, rank and stagnant beneath the city of gold, but now in a house. This house is the epitome of luxury. Probably in the Hollywood Hills. That senseless view of the city and the sea, very much like bending over and looking deeply into your own asshole. Los Angeles looks the same, with all of the authentic smog smell assaulting nostrils like swear words to priest’s ears. This is the unholy land. People condone rape as long as they are paid off. These streets sweat celebrity blood and no one gives a shit anymore. We’re all confused.
This house is huge. I am exploring it, while hearing someone screaming ‘Oh god! I don’t want to die! Please…’ in a loud voice from somewhere centralized. It sounds like incoherent pleading and ghastly pain. I walk around the premises, attempting to find the source of the voice. In fear of course. We are afraid for our sanity. My assistant trails me. We walk through jacuzzi pool rooms with saunas and steam baths overlooking the courtyard of flower gardens and luxurious outdoor patios with bar stools set up for chic parties with the finest dinner guests of affluent backgrounds… The rooms with master piece paintings, framed like the Getty…. looking for the word, the job description of someone who professionally frames paintings and creates jobs out of the scrap metal left over.
We go up to the master bedroom where the host seems to be attempting to quiet the screams. They come from a radio on his desk. A ghost radio with no electricity. There is a large hunting knife beside him. We speaks vaguely about what the pleading voice was all about. Creepily alluding to the history of violent deaths on the property.
Flash to an archipelago. Tiny island communities. We floated on a dock with a motor through these jungle locations. There were tiny baby foxes, red-orange in the twilight, and turtles… we saw people on the opposite shore, watching us with beers and binoculars in their hands and gullets. they looked lustful and we were fearful. drunk and stoned, replacing the driveways with water channels. we have no motive to reclaim the land lost. there is so much more to find.
caffeine causes good dreams