nighttime emissions and sublimated humiliation fantasies

i had a sickening dream, after i woke but before i rose. on dusty recliner with wooden arms and itchy hounds-tooth cushions, a frog slid tadpoles straight from a gash running from throat to tail. it had not been cut, it had only opened to birth them. it had always been there. on the chair a snake wriggled around with the frog. it wanted to eat them all. the frog fought and the blind babies squirmed away, but the snake ate them anyway. it was a slimy sight. i had descended from a tower, perched on a church's rust-streaked green dome, where i clutched to the surface on sticky octopus suckers with street-kids, where i had been safe. but, of course, the world ordains the things you must witness.

not to diminish the dreams i have had of you lately. no. you no longer chase me in soothing loops round escher staircases, our ability to move expanded to bounding many-storied leaps, the cartilage in our knees extra-strengthened pillows. now. oh now. you crack the bones in my wrists between your thumb and forefinger and i turn your skin to ribbons with a bowie knife. i cover you in hair, force it to grow everywhere, including the soles of your feet. you un-piece me by a pond full of sucking mud and throw my bits in to be watched over by the trees. in front of your elementary school, i walk behind you invisible, whispering the truths of your grown up self into your ear as you move to the double doors and you are so ashamed. you are hot-faced but you can't cry in social studies and language arts.

my daydreams are pure avoidance. "i am living my best life." audiences with princelings and me in a plexiglass box, lit under with LEDs, dancing to mint royale on repeat for eighteen hours, probably high, probably wearing knee socks, probably wearing a t-shirt dress with some lazy illuminati-based design (triangles no doubt, even though i've always felt better about squares), probably losing momentum, until i'm too exhausted to take home anyone who might have chanced a look. too tired to feel the hand on my face until after it's left a bright red palm print there.

In a bronze chamber, faced with the silent handkerchief of a strangler, hope has been faithful to me;

yeah to speak from my tentacles, i'm a little sad that it seems all of the squidbloggers but nautilus & i have fled from the south side enclave. (rollypolly left today for the western coast and mr. malic was compelled by irresistable opportunity to a fairyland of fun in michigan.) but so many adventures! i knew this would be a blog of adventurers and i've been inspired to find my own adventures this summer as well as to recognize how amazing the people who enter and leave my life are. you are among these rare squidkindred.

last night i dreamt i was rolling spliffs and driving west in a red car full of people i didn't know. ah ah!

unrelatedly, i would like to direct your attention to the ancient book of sex and science where the makers of monsters, inc. have turned their attention to weighty matters.

today i was singled out from the masses for a job interview at istria cafe, which has yet to occur but when it does will hopefully result in a deluge of coffee beans, tips, new buddies, life sustained by minimal wages, and sprinklings of consumerist delight.