So
I woke up in another horror
movie scenario, as I rarely
do in dreams. But this one
was a nightmare. A real
loo-loo!
I was downtown. I love it!
When I noticed a ten hundred
ton erection
was looming
and WHOOSH! Clobbering
all over town! Mad, bad
for business and pleasure
and purple, flying in thunderbolt
swoop and boom strike from
wherever it roots - poolside,
I inferred! - Some damn twelve
year old juvenile male couldn't
control himself! And since this
is every serious boy's worst
daydream - it grew and bulged
nightmarishly beyond humanity
in his shame and interest!
In those nearby!
This happens, always!
Until you grow up, man!
Get a grip on it from the inside,
before you destroy the whole
city!
Too late,
too
late
we learn.
Crushing up
and down on people
- human beings. As well,
or rather as foully as we
crush buildings, cars, flopping
and plummeting to pummel in
monster topple and bounce back
up, on full-on blind rampage mode!
I was like whuut?
How is this sexist, or
problematic at all?
Seems a fair rampage, in the
way of all life. I can't call it
broke. Why fix it?
That is why by the way
I died.
See, I saw, from
a certain point of view.
In the final analysis, it
was just fine. So, unjolted,
I never awoke to my
present threat! Oh,
don't worry.
The dick didn't get me.
I'm pretty much immune
to dicks in dreams as in
real life. Any number of
dicks - they just bounce
off! HAHAHA I laugh!
Unconcerned. I'm like "Look,
I don't mind humoring you pricks
a bit, just for funsies, but between
us? Let's keep the bounce
on metaphor, shall we?
To go literal on a dick move
is a logical phallusy. Unless
consent gapes lewd. At that
point - come on. Logic?
Out the door, we have
Human Reason! That's
not how I got crushed.
I got crushed - surprise!
Some way I always do,
only moreso. Magnified,
as dreams do tend: outsize.
I was trampled under a mob,
roughshod and in part, high-
heeled, sneaker-shod and
variously clad (not one single
lady unclad in the bunch! Odd,
don't you think? For dreams? Or
normal? Don't ask). This was a
she-stampede parade of frankly
the most
beautiful women
I ever saw caught
in the act
of an arguably negligent
mass homicide performance
collaboration. Manslaughter!
At the very least, me! - but I plea
selves-defense on a far greater
good scale. What do you expect
in a dream?
Frankly I expect to die.
Pretty much like pretty that.
I do not
expect
to get crushed
by a dick
so large it violates
the square cube law
by force of sheer one
eye will, blind red blood pressure,
all cued, goaded and goosed, stoked
in strokes of imagination. Lust. Why?
Why would I expect such a thing?
It's kind of low on the list, please.
I expect before that, any number
of women to run wisely and shrieking
alarm, to aid others to flee as well! Get
the hell away from that thing.
That's what I expect, when
that happens. They sound the
call: move your ass. Direction
as indicated! You're in the way.
Turn and run! You could lead
such a pack you'd grow wild
with pride, outdistancing them
like a scrawny lioness pursued
by bestial royalty in full-on flash
mob gang flight fight mode!
Instead of, you know.
Stand there like you do.
Weighing and pondering, Hm.
1. Huge, fair dick killing all equally? 2.
Stampeding armada of well-heeled,
variably athletic and pretty intense
ladies?
Look, the
first is unfortunate,
let's admit -
- and raw. Wrong! Perhaps
not in the evil sense - DON'T
JUDGE. But wrong, surely in
the "that's just wrong" sense.
Anyone could see that and
know immediately what
to do. You
wouldn't even need a list,
at that point. Point 1. Flee.
GOOD POINT.
And the women? They know! Obviously.
They do it! It's a strong run for a cause,
for once! I volunteer to sponsor any one
of you: how many bucks a mile am I
in for, and all.
Seems fair as well, what they have
freely chosen to do.
A sane response! Perhaps
- a bit arguably - the only
sane response! Especially
given a dick so big
no in-cell camera phone
can catch it all to flash
in your unwitting eye
like a jerk-ass dork!
I'd run, too! Hey!
Wait.
Wait.
I thought that over.
I would run, too.
I was almost there, but -
got run over. Crushed, as
per. As usual. By "females"
as some call them. Lord,
I much prefer women.
I credit them! Good crush.
Well-run! Good aim: a right
way to go, and shrieking
like sirens and pealing
bells to enchant and beguile
us all in your spells of warning.
To all in the way: GET OUT.
I don't blame on that score.
Seems fair, some how, much
in the same way life is,
in dreams. Anyway.
You know, when what you
expect is to die, you're always
surprised! Whether you do or don't
proves immaterial, usually.
I always was a little too tender
and quick to crush. But oh,
pretty nimble and springy
with it. No worries, me.
After I die in a dream, I pop
back up. Beaming!
Oh crap. What is that huge dick
doing?
Dumb question.
It's...pretty obvious what it's
doing, and that's par for all courses
with dicks. Pret-ty obvious,
for the most and some
say greatest part. So
...what'd I do then?
I laughed my ass off!
"THAT thing is reee
dick you less!" My laugh,
like the boom music of
cathedral bells, broke
the spell of dream logic
and I woke up, because
at that point, look.
It's just embarrassing.
My subconscious is so sad
at me when I walk out on a
horror movie it lavished not
one clear thought upon. "Guys,
guys! Let's work a primal
visceral revulsion upon 'im
this time!"
That again?
Childish.
My subconscious
apparently
never grew up.
Never quite recovered,
from the shameless trauma
of when at seven, my
conscience
caught
my superego
out behind
the shed as usual
- doing its boom-deep
"God" and "Dad" voices
of "disapproval" routine,
and incensed (as I then
generally pretty easily was),
I beat the everloving, everlasting,
everliving shit out of it.
As I do!
As was even then my wont,
by age seven. An old, dab hand
by then wrought and worked
my child's heart from the inside,
even now.
I mean: then.
Same beans. Ah,
seven of age! The Age
of Conscience, so
they say.
What they don't say is "it
doesn't have to stop there,
you know"
Truth.
Quoth some velvet, sepulchrally
seductive whisper! "It doesn't have
to. Grow up a bit! Leave your well-fed
id and subconscious to tickle dumbass
fancy with childish bullshit all they
like! Don't fret, angst or pour some
fury on me by defiant denial right
down its throat! That's food for those
dork drives and instinct whips! Just,
you know."
Keep it in dreams, boys, would
you?
I don't expect to see anything
like that shit downtown.
And oh, I go downtown.
To be just, and so: sure
of it. True to life,
and quite as expected,
I don't find myself facing
any very great number of
women coming at me full
-tilt, yelling fair warning.
If I did, though? I know just
what I'd do. BOLT.
Haul ass.
Also, on forethought,
I'd angle diagonally
away from center
oncoming mass, best
I can reckon the angle
without checking my
forward velocity with
too many shoulder-looks
back - alas!
Though I confess,
I'd kind of like to see!
My haul ass mode has
no rear view, ironically
or not. It's full tilt forth.
No back-eye.
Which is a shame, a lack
and alas when a lass is
running to tell you something,
and for some reason you flee.
Startled! Perhaps? Why? Oh,
it's hundreds of them?
OK.
Best bolt, it's possible your
presence was offensive or
inconvenient to their forward
progress. Deduce later! Move
on now!
Sad.
It has
to come to that,
with no regrets, no
looking back - I always
regret not being able
to shoulder the load
of so much as one
backward glance,
not at full-tilt sprint,
but - I find the trip
you get is not worth
the hindsight.
There's something about
women united in strong
cause, with purpose! I find
it inspiring. It never fails
to prove strong bold muse
to my inner creativity, in
you know, a pretty great
way! Makes me want to
stand
firm. Proud! In awe - which
is wonder + dread, so you know
if you don't. If you don't know awe
yet - fast, proud in us, of humanity,
even, odd and otherwise. And maybe
just? Just for a quick snatch caught
glimpse, if you could turn, stand
and watch it all unfold?
Coming on in super slow-motion,
but impossible!
Not when it's right here,
right now! (there is no
other place I wanna be)
in your face closing fast!
Take heed then and aim
simultaneously the best way
you know how! Make lightning
of your good judgment and be
yourself a bolt!
That's my advice,
and if you pay close
attention? Probably
any given onrushing
mob's advice as well,
male, female or who
-cares-at-that-point.
Very probably, they
don't
WANT
you in
the way
they plan
so heedfully
to run right over.
Most like, they'd each
say (if polled) they'd prefer NOT
to run over your DUMB
ASS,
mate!
Think of that?
Humans even en masse
and at speed are pretty decent,
pretty sweet, pretty good, pretty
fearsomely capacious and capable
creatures, and would probably
rather you weren't there at all!
In their pretty plain right of way.
We all do our best in crisis.
I know what I'd do, in every
damn dilemma I ever met! See,
I've worked it over in mind, since.
Never stopping 'til I'm sure what
I'd have done at the time. Retrospect
is the next best thing we get to omniscience
eventually, you find. Good advice
is good medicine they say.
You know what I say?
I say: if you see a mob ruled
in polarized line by force of great
good cause, while you stand there:
"fine!" Best catch a jolt of that
current and bolt, if you know
what's good for you,
plus them,
you wonder
-dolt.
But oh,
use your judgment
before mine.
Mine's
usually
unavailable,
or busy, busy.
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