These fucking dreams… I’m not talking about just bad dreams; nightmares about hanging on the brink of economic oblivion, or falling off a cliff, or angels and devils in flight; robes billowing, swords slashing in angelic blood, spraying the distal clouds with their supreme supernatural madness… I’m not talking about their angel cries, piercing thunderbolts raining down into the dark primordial cauldron… I’m talking about chaos and disorder of the lowest frequency – the basest carnality – the most human. Blazing hot bodies, I’m talking about here; bare breasts and sun glasses, thongs strapped up asses – the kind that make you want to reach in with your finger and pop it like a guitar string just to hear it snap, collagen lips, fiery candy apple with a sinister bent, threatening to seduce and suck the life out of you – and cocks! My God, cocks everywhere!

The locale is some house some where, somebody’s soulful abode. I feel like a breaking-and-enter, head to toe in black cloth, slipping in through the window into the dark coolness of a blue moon room – a bedroom with linen drapes billowing their welcome in the breeze. Am I visible? Who can see me? Here I am, heart pounding, eyes covered, soul vacant, gliding across the floor like a phantom. I have a strange, disembodied feeling. I am a voyeur and a participant. I feel trapped in a bubble of autistic aphasia – the psychotic who views his own behavior as someone else’s.

I can see a body in the linens in front of me. The limbs poke out here and there, shimmering blue in this light. I listen for the body’s sounds. I see a breast heaving underneath the glowing flesh of a Rubenesque arm. I’m drawn forward tantalized, magnetized – my mouth is as dry as an alkali flat… My eyes are large spheres in my shrunken skull. The veins in my left arm bulge red and blue, pulsing the syncopated rhythm of my arrhythmic heart…

In my waking hours I think of myself as a respectable person… Albeit, decidedly right brained… And now pissing myself rough ragged with the hormonal urgency of a baboon in the throes of an epileptic seizure and all the stiffness of my seed stoked rod.
Nerve number 724 in my cerebral cortex prickles to life and inquires, “Where do these visions come from? Who in his right mind?”
“There is no right mind.” I reply to the dark, alone to consider it, with the wind waving sheets and crickets creaking nervously their symphonic cacophony that disembowels the night with its knife’s sound. Their music roars upward and rips open the Milky Way. Stars blister, slather, burst and cloud the moon. The universe becomes a glowing, seething ejaculation.

I pause. The body stirs in front of me. She – it is a she, isn’t it? I can make out the curves of a female – the shapely mound of her hind quarters under those pillowy white beddings, and that arm and those fingers, blue like the dead, fingernails painted midnight, so indistinguishable from black they form queer vampiric talons. Still, I wonder, what sort of tools lurk inside those loins? My breath speeds up again with images of the rippling flesh of some darkly veined manhood, or the fat rheumy encapsulation of a woman, perhaps both? A woman… It must be. And yet a man would be, well… a man.

I am a pervert. God what a creature! My canines extend below my chin. My eyes are gold flecked, large and vacant. My back is lupine, lurching like an evil tree out of my pelvis. Large primate vertebrae protrude at regular intervals from pronounced shoulder blades beneath mattes of hair, rooted in a massive tailbone mechanism, exhibiting the mechanical detail of a flayed cadaver. Muscles stretch blood red down my ribs and lower thorax, bend to form my gluteus maximus, and encircle a flaming red anus that bulges with the purposefulness of an eye. My penis is huge and skinless, and scarier than the grim reaper’s scythe. My arms and legs protrude from my body with simian ferocity. My feet are planted on the floor, fearsome and Sasquatch huge. God save me! I am a loathsome creature whose soul purpose in life is to fuck and inspire the worst human emotions. I have lost all connection to anything. I am a cruel golem that preys on itself and anything it comes in contact with. And I do it with the appetite of a starving crocodile.

But soft! I can hear her stirring. She’s rotating in the gentle rustling sound of three hundred threads per square inch which assaults my ears and sets my nerves aflame. I dream of fucking in them and soaking them with hours and hours of sweat, hot breath, and cum. I can see her clearly now. Suddenly she kicks the covers off revealing pale translucent skin. A feeling pulls me back like the tug of a leash. I gotta go. No, I’ll just walk in a little bit more and have a look. Her round curves beckon toward me. Her quiet feet compose sweetly inside the twisted material. Her legs wave up from there, rolling nicely along the twisted folds. I’m kneeling at the altar. Venus is lying in her sea foam shell, her porcelain skin shimmering in a bath of salt, her pussy trembling in anticipation of Zeus, God the Father, the universe exploding inside her.

I’m an earthquake. From my toes, through the arches of my feet, up through my ankles and calves, the tremors erupt. My femur becomes a wiggling rubber band. This feels electric, this energy. It ignites out of the floor in rectilinear spasms, through my lower extremities and up into the base of my cock. And at this point, my soul takes wild flight into the stratosphere where it meets Cupid and Aphrodite in full coitus on a cloud – him and his little fat baby butt slinging poison arrows.

I’m dammed against the natural surge of water pushing its way out of me. The back pressure is building against my bladder and lower intestines. I’m reticent to move, or even think or breathe. Suddenly I don’t know what to do. She’s there, awake now, and lookin’ at me with glass black eyes, smiling in a way that reminds me of death, and which must in some way mirror the curling chapped lips that crinkle and push against these cruel canines.

“You can have whatever you want.” I hear her whisper.

And suddenly we are engaged in a coital monstrosity so barbarous we are transformed into beasts; we grunt like pigs in shit, howl like wolves, and lap at each other like lions on a carcass. We flail and bend over one another, erupting vast sprays of genital excretions and blood all over the sheets, copulating and surging to form one tantalizing singularity, neither of us knowing where we begin or end.
But, I realize, this isn’t happening. My feet are planted firmly on the floor. The last of the electric convulsions are rippling up my spine and through my head. “Fuck man!” Something says to me. “What are you waiting for? Dig her! She’s diggin’ you! Look at her! Just look at her!!!”

She uncrosses her nubile extremities and presses her fingers in the slick where they meet – just to test.

“I’m ready to fuck something.” She whispers back into her pillow, as if she has passed over me, and certainly no longer interested.

“But there must be more to the act of sex than fucking,” says the fascist nerve 724, which during my hormonal onslaught has become a grossly endorphin engorged ganglia in my cerebellum.

“Pipe down or I’ll cut you out of my head myself.”

“Go ahead,” it taunts, “but then you wouldn’t be you.”

And who is that? I wonder.

“Well are you just going to sit there, or what?” She asks, turning onto her side so that her hip beckons me again. Her pussy is a glittering invitation between her plush thighs. She’s looking up at me with that arm of hers draped across her naked hip and breasts splayed across her chest like the God I don’t know.

This is an adolescent’s dream, the enraged nerve screams in my head. The tugging of the leash at my neck becomes all imperative. I yield toward a door. The girl in the bed is looking at me with a queer expression, something on the order of why-the-fuck-don’t-you-come-over-here-and-fuck-me? She turns her face down into the pillow, kicks the bed and sighs exasperated.

I place my ear at the door. I listen and peek through the slight opening. It is light out there, and I can see an assembly line of sex crazed people, all fucking like machines. Naked feet, arms, and butts are all a flurry; smeared thighs, ripped hose, scuffed stiletto heels; a fat mechanic and a pizza delivery boy drunk on beer, and an artery clogged car salesman. A female blow up doll come to life is taking it from every conceivable angle of the three. I wonder what is it about fat guys that turns chicks on? I watch as the mechanic has the woman irrevocably pinned within his massive hands impaling her repeatedly with his menacing prick. “This is who I am.” He declares without shame, “I weigh three-fifty drink a twelve pack of beer every night, and I don’t give a fuck what anybody thinks! Hell, you seem like a nice guy. Care to join me for a brew? Here’s a bowl of pork rinds, and a clean white line for you to snort. Hey… want me to fuck you?”

The chick is sucking this guy like raw steak going through a grinder. I reach for the bag of cocaine beneath the table and see the girl up on her hands, wheel barrow fashion with her ass up in the air, her legs wrapped around his hairy gelatinous waist. His large ape-like digits are clamped to her hips making deep indentations in the pillowy mounds of her ass, and he’s fucking her to the end of the world, and she’s as red as a rocket ready to launch which she does with a loud shudder of her entire body and a sound that starts out a moan and crescendos into a scream, a red scream that warps the chartreuse walls of the room with its pale fluorescent lighting, its cheap threadbare sofas with gold and brown velvet upholstery, cheesy orange and dark brown pillows smeared ripe with Vaseline, K-Y, vaginal sludge, saliva, shit, and cum. Used condoms and their wrappers litter the floor.

Four lip stick smeared women are rampantly hog-wild fucking glow-in-the-dark double dildos. Their legs splay rudely over their white vinyl chaise lounge. The one with the bride of Frankenstein hairdo is violently muff diving a twenty year old blonde with a V shaped tan line at her shaved pussy. I stare, twelve years old and dumbfounded, just me and my primeval prick.

I don’t go near.

Too risky.

But this lust…

But this gravity and repulsion, revulsion, attraction…

But these dreams persist.

Night after night they lead me down dark pathways into wanton scenarios. Sometimes it’s an orgy, with room after room of rampant sexual theatrics. Sometimes it’s full-on homosexual conquest, with men linked together through a maze of glory holes, hanging like ornaments off one another. Two men, one standing, holding his buddy upside-down are sucking each other off so furiously streams of saliva shoot across the room to herald the exploding ribbons of semen, which soon splatter steaming against the black lacquered walls of the dark dungeon.

In real life, it’s just Helen and me. We shut our doors so it’s safe inside. Outside, the rain falls heavily from a torrent of dark grey clouds. Lightning flashes. It’s subdued in the house, swept with the damp coolness of the summer storm. Our bodies coalesce like rivulets of water on the window pane. We are home. The fire of love keeps us warm. Its flames touch us lightly and reassure.

WHAM– the lightning goes! The lights dim. Thunder rumbles across the lake. The children are asleep. We are on our bed, laid up against soft pillows, our heads near the window. I am tucked inside her, and she surrounds me. Her body is nestled in the crux of my frame. My arms enfold her. Her back is braced against my chest and belly. Her tummy cradles warmly in the cup of my right hand. The fingers of our left hands are interlaced above our heads. This is the embodiment and the attainment of my soul’s longing… place… deep soil… deep roots… a steadfast tree glowing green and soaking up the life giving rain.

“What will you write today?”

“No words. Just beer.” I say hoarsely, and clear my throat.

“Don’t you like to write anymore?”

“I’m not sure.”

“One of us will have to get a job.”

“Doing what?” I ask.

“Selling beer, maybe.”

“In a saloon?”

“Maybe I’ll drive a truck, and deliver to the saloon.”

“That way you won’t have to deal with the drunks.”

“Not true, they’ll be lounging in doorways in pools of vomit trying to grab my ass.”

“What kind?” I ask feeling dejected.



“Honey ale.” She says, and cups my hand pulling me further into her, and she giggles pleasantly.

We laugh at the thought of dribbling honey. We laugh at the specter of beer trucks and vomit reeking grab ass drunks. We laugh at the fact that we have run out of money, and I haven’t published a single thing in over two years. For awhile the laughter sustains us, a sort of droll comedy that zings around the storm darkened corners of the room and pokes needles every so lightly at our tender souls. It hurts us both intensely, but we ignite for each other’s benefit. And we glow, our teeth spread beneath pale lips, exuding stale breath as we smile and try to make each other feel okay. I know what I should do. All I have to do is reach in and pull it out, this devilish thorn, this monster trap. I will, I tell myself, as I have daily for over a year.

But these dark angels visit me in the imperfect night with their strange ministry, stirring other voices, conjuring other gods.

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