Yes they were beautiful in all that mist twinkling so deep and wide but actually they weren't bridges at all. They didn't connect anything. They didn't lead anywhere. They were lovely little lonely little pieces of God shining as hard as they could above miles of silver water. Illusory islands. Zero enterprise. No coconuts to collect and sell. No sun burnished tourists with their bad music and tacky luggage. Everything was made of light. I might have been dead. I was probably dead. I'm always a ghost in my dreams, never a flesh and blood participant. Dreams imitate life. There were couples, mostly gay. I envied the gay couples and the one heterosexual couple. "Must be NICE. So much affirmation in your life. So much honey drizzled hope. So much OOMPH. Ooo la la. Swooncake euphonious. A tiny infinity of well-aimed besos. Starry muchness. Fucks that aren't empty at all, not so much meat on meat. Light exploring light. Angelic angles and cryptic curves rather than another stale bologna sandwich with too much Family Dollar mustard and sweet relish. No aural vomit. Nothing hisses. Everything sings."
I didn't see diamond rings. Diamond rings are never the point. I didn't see mortgages or flashy new big deal cars or flags whipping in apple pie wind. I didn't see white picket fences. I didn't see Applebee's or Red Lobster or yours versus mine. It was kindergarten meets the jungle. Yes, there were ants and spiders and wasps. Stuff still stings, even in dreams. Snakes still do their thing. But the love defies articulation and translation and transmission and it doesn't matter where his Mars is or where her Venus glows. There's considerable knowing and the glow ensues. It certainly wasn't about killer abs or whitest teeth imaginable or best fuck ever. There was no Mariah Carey or Jessica Biel or Miley Cyrus or Playboy or Hustler or Big Luscious Tits to this particular dream. No candy heart mockery. No Air Supply. No Chicago. "How Deep is Your Love?" is a rhetorical question.
Everyone was dancing and there was plenty of laughter but it wasn't moronic. Everything felt really fucking good. This is the only kind of dream I'm interested in dying inside. All other dreams are repulsive and available on numerous shelves. Go shopping, soldiers. Coupons and carts and lists at the ready.
I didn't see diamond rings. Diamond rings are never the point. I didn't see mortgages or flashy new big deal cars or flags whipping in apple pie wind. I didn't see white picket fences. I didn't see Applebee's or Red Lobster or yours versus mine. It was kindergarten meets the jungle. Yes, there were ants and spiders and wasps. Stuff still stings, even in dreams. Snakes still do their thing. But the love defies articulation and translation and transmission and it doesn't matter where his Mars is or where her Venus glows. There's considerable knowing and the glow ensues. It certainly wasn't about killer abs or whitest teeth imaginable or best fuck ever. There was no Mariah Carey or Jessica Biel or Miley Cyrus or Playboy or Hustler or Big Luscious Tits to this particular dream. No candy heart mockery. No Air Supply. No Chicago. "How Deep is Your Love?" is a rhetorical question.
Everyone was dancing and there was plenty of laughter but it wasn't moronic. Everything felt really fucking good. This is the only kind of dream I'm interested in dying inside. All other dreams are repulsive and available on numerous shelves. Go shopping, soldiers. Coupons and carts and lists at the ready.
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