Sweven

The 8th

Brightness
Faces are friendly. Laughter is warmth while we sit within the east. Sky grows heavy. Clouds fill with ash as they rage in from the south. Rush away home. Here, sky is unblemished. Tiny blooms dot the lawns. Crystal, streetside rivulets run. Walk with Jaytee to where love still lives. World simmers brighter. Lend him sunglasses. Stroll along singing a mirthless song, "The futures so bright we gotta wear shades."

Lioness
A day waning. Lioness roars. Spirits scatter like storm sent wind. Most run away. A few run to. Lioness sings. Those who hear are granted wings. We soar into the ever bleeding heart of the west.

Perfection
Her children stay small. She keeps them in cubbies of sparkling crystal. They are the projection of happiness and health, of fortune and wealth. Can't stand the shine of their pseudo perfection. I hit the holey road.

Hypnagogic
A square pan full of burnt food from which black ash rises and drifts

Sketchers of Souls
With pencil, paper, eagle's eye, we sketch the souls as they roll by. One by one the sketchers fade, leaving unscribbled souls to suffocate neath crystalline undulations of hate. We two, froze, stay sketching. Struggle to record as many souls as we can before the final strike.

The Hungry
We hunger. Farms faded. Aisles echo. All food has flown into the sun. And as we starve my nephew's voice echoes from the darkest crevasse of my skull to the angriest snarl in my gut, "Are people food?"

Tested a recent suggestion I offered. Reality checked 100 times every day for two days in a row. Managed a tidbit of lucidity but it felt loose. Loose-cidity.

Run
Heat, next to hellish, presses upon us all. We are not much more than sore streams of flesh pushing and pouring past shop laden shores. In its simmering midst I snap. I stand. I scream. All currents come to a halt. How freakishly odd. What the feck. Reality check? I do and discover, "I'm dreaming."
Some primal reflex screams at me, "JUST RUN!" I obey simply to see what will come to be of this spontaneous urge. Too soon I slow down. Too soon I forget. "Wasn't I dreaming?" Reality check. "Yes. I'm dreaming. I'm dreaming. Don't forget!"
"JUST RUN!" the urge shrieks. I fly on ghost feet through people and walls and worlds. Again my pace slows. Where am I? Don't know. Why am I running? Don't know. Entirely lost, several levels deep, walk back wards to the start. The fog comes crawling. My soul starts cawing shuddersome omens. Slip. Fall. Fade to black.

Hypnagogic
The Bundy's (MWC) eating off the floor like dogs
Dots like lazy snowflakes drifting in and out of view

Culvert
A country too crowded, soaked in a hurried sunset. Try to escape. They have walled all paths. Two planes dance wild. They crash. Their death spark reveals all in the dark. Sky is streams of planes. Distance booms like death. Take cover in a culvert. Cut off from starlight. Misplaced from the moon. We've only the earth for protection. We hope she loves us still. Sing songs from sacred days.

Boxed
A big city. A big building. A big party. Suddenly locked. Streets are a surge zombie warriors with wings of fire and eyes of guns. Screaming metal and humming drones keep us in our boxes. Gather water. Gather food. Gather what wits are left. Hope rolls to us by way of winding tubes and message marbles. We will survive.

Notes:
Fasted for 24 hours to see if my dreams would change or I might possibly become lucid. Attack came in every dream I recalled but there was no life or death fear attached so I can't call them frightening or even nightmares.

Back Man
He lays on pavement, scooting on his back. Two men orbit him, yowling in nonsense. What is happening? Some strange attack? Social media prank? Eventually curiosity wilts. There's work to do. We leave the trio and reclaim our way.

Harry
He revives Harry. It's a one man show. He performs his role like a raving clown. But there is no Floyd. It's only Harry. Bizarrely it works. Our vigilant brains fill in the spaces where Floyds words would be. And I, for the life of me, can't comprehend if the show garbage or genius.

Hood
He fashions a hood from scraps of human flesh. But it is okay, he says, because his scraps were soul-less, seeded in the secrecy of a lab.

Star Shifts
Riddled with fearful anticipation we plot our paths either into the mysterious birth or the ever stretching fringe of the known. Red stars or blue stars are guiding lights.

Wonderful to be back.

I was lost in a sea of hypnagogic imagery as pain pulled me in and out of dreams.
An imploding compound eyeball.
A braid of light wisps.
Police pushing through my door.
Up a steeply inclined string.
A vibrating tangle of spectral shapes that nearly was a dream.

Imladris?
Whispers of moonlight slip through carven beams of a hallway unending. Drifting fluff of soul, aimless and ailing, I amble along. He calls a name that is mine and yet, not. I am a river. Voices are echoes, sacred harmonies so gently easing all the harm in me. A path of new moons and ritual fasts, of magic mantras and dream woven tasks is assigned to me. I agree. Finally there is rest beneath the stars, beside cascades, beyond dim and damned ever reaching hands.

24th

Hypnagogia
A field of sunflowers is actually a field of suns that are tied off and bobbing like balloons.

Messes
To hell with the mirth and mess. Flee hypocrisy. The inn is the out. Too soon it too is dirt and distress. The scatter of trash nimbly mutates into a piercing childhood haunt, monster of false memories. Escape filth and faulty flashbacks. Uneasy freedom is found in bizarre streets.

To celebrate the longest night of the year, extra early to bed. Dec 21-22 2024

Please
Sultry whispers wake me, "Please let me please you." Mild rage unfurls within to fill the shallow where sleep had been. He stays relentless in his quest until I bitterly confess, "The only way to please me is to let me sleep and lucid dream."

Cheese
Hum of hushed conversations is surround-sound, nonsensical chorus. Crinkles in the dark catch my ear. Turn. Kay and Jay slurp cheese slices straight off the wrappers. It seems odd until, on the wall, others crinkle and slurp just the same.

Hunting Season
A boggy field brings me home. "You need to dye your hair lighter. It's hunting season." a stranger tells from the road. I nod. Slog on. Then comes a yip, the slap of paws upon sodden lawn. I turn. Prep for fight or flight. Instead am riddled with delight by the sight of a little fox, ragged and romping, eyes sparking bright. Fearlessly it follows me into the very heart of home. I swear to keep him hidden from the hunt.

Sudden Fair
Supple solitude and the warm caress of a waning sunset are disrupted. Waves of children flood through the fence. Floating behind, like battered driftwood lumps, come their parents. A carnival erupts. Trapped on a teeter-totter the length of a house, cousin and I carefully lift and lower. Mid plank, perched like a mob of monkeys, a small group sits and sways. Yearn for loneliness of the stolen sunset.

Black Days
Flicker of hearing and singing Fell on Black Days.

Gajeet
Her songs, bitter or sweet, are melodious of voice and soul. But her spoken words are angular like tainted arrows ripping through their target hearts. It is agreed that she is evil. We guard our secret scars.

House
Can't seem to clean it, this strange-shapen house of too many windows and too few doors. Wire and woven cords spill from shocked outlets. Attempt to untangle them but they dangle untamed. Blind eyes and broken hands tumble cross towel carpet floors. Glass rafters cackle then I too tumble away.

The Show
History is fake. Words are curses made to shine like hope. The shining smiles, distracting shows, absurdly long tresses of leaders, bleeders, attention needers, keep our eyes locked in glorious lies.

Who is she, tucked in her long and too-thin casket? Sit aside the mourners. Not a souls is known, not even my own, I think.

A jittery man, red jumpsuit wrapped, plays broken keys, spews spoken hymns. Red backs into the bed. It tips. It rocks. The death mask within un-wrinkles with shock. Her brows twitch. Her lips narrow. Is she alive? Dead? Undead?

The assembled are unbothered.

Look back. Sleeper has shifted. She is mother, face convulsing, eyes rolling in REM rage. Stab of fear. Wash of revulsion.

Seek solace from the mourners. They are unmoved.

Breathe through the shock. Call upon cautious disbelief. This can't be real. Fumble through a reality check, "It's a dream. Of course it is. Just a dream. Just a dream."

Look back. Mother contorts into grandmother. Heavily painted eyes rip open. She sits up. Face bitter. We lock eyes. She gives an unloving grin full of secrets, full of sin. My soul prickles with dread.

The crowd are statues. "This is a dream!" I scream.

Look back. Grandmother contorts into Yubaba. We stand suddenly face to face. "Give me a hug," she croaks through wrinkles, rippling wild. Recoil. Then, through the fear comes clambering some calm. I claim, "This is dream." Step toward the arisen. Fall into embrace. Frighteningly, absolute nothing inhabits her hold. Yubaba pulls away. She floats away. Red still croons fragmented tunes. The undead gives gifts to the statues still littered about.

Slip into an icy, analytical space. "This is a dream. The walking dead. The waking dead. Re-awakening?"

Sailer
They stab poles into earth bones. Hoist city sized swaths of fabric high. "We will right the world," they sing to simpering herds. In actuality, no rhyme or reason stands behind the helter-skelter sails. But the herds are pacified. In fraud they trust.

Writer
I am writing. Or perhaps righting the wrongs they wove across long, misleading lives. The hidden truths behind the tales will finally see the light.

Forked tongue splits a grin. Seeds of lies are sewn. Silence is safety. A sister and I Trip backward in time. We stroll our old halls. They are crowded, cold. Suddenly behold that I am birthday bare. I can't seem to care. This must be a dream. Reality Check. Yes! We are dreaming.

No assertations. Instead, simply know and follow the flow of this cliche scene. Sister is frantic to find me attire. Allow her lead. Door to door to door. All locked. Floor to floor to floor. Half-cocked. Each turn sees us ignored.

Suddenly he strides, dream within a dream. His eyes of twilight and his scarecrow grin cast magic across my lucid skin. His coat is offered. I accept. He goes his own way. His lingering scent leaves me wrapped in vulgar yearnings. But I am lucid. I know this trap. He is a sensual distraction. Reality check. Walk away.

Sister wanders off to find some ride. I wait, dance half naked outside the institute of my youth. I'm dreaming. Dreaming. Dreaming. Sister seems long gone. Bid the sun farewell. Pluck it from the sky. Admire its sharp shine in the hollow of my hand. Make a lucid wish. Now, blow out the sun. It lilts slowly away like a mess of milkweed fluff. Fall madly in love with its simple grace.

Catch a luscious scent. Feel a hungry leer. Surge of temptation. I know he is near. "Who are we?" I ask. No answer. I spin. Fall flat on my back. Laughing, I stand, slip off the jacket, "Take it back? I am naked, not afraid." No answer. Toss the jacket onto rocks. Into silken grass I sprawl. Allow whatever will come, to come. I slip... sink... and fall.

18th

Hamill Wall
Wall is a canvas equally divided. In each rectangle he deftly splashes a smatter of hues, a scribble of line. His storyboard, complete after a short time. Can not decipher his spatters of soul. And he will not share his secret story by way of worthless words. He signs it simply, Mark.

19th

Calenardhon
I am medicine for a horse lord, worn. Naked, across night, he takes his fill. He spills into specter realms with the trilling of the dusk. Slumber now, to strength. White tree arises. Her sons dismount. Step past the whispers and spirits of stone. We speak of treaties and of tarnished thrones, of fires rekindled yet swift to wither. Where is medicine for our world's swift decay?