Strong Dream, Paul Klee
Strong Dream, Paul Klee

Lust ladders inside a bronze suitcase.
Magnetic formulas towards that new place.
Flotation devices became ozone caskets in velvet.
Oh you can hobnob but only with doorknobs.
Interesting how spilled liquids are like lost memories.
It was a razor dance in a yellow after curfew glow.
Residual mansion flour caught ghost ships at midnight.
Nocturnal mischief they called it.
Quiet mischief?
Leapt onto a pole of tyrannical butter sentiments.
The switch is beyond your reach.
Far beyond the stink of your forlorn nonsense machine.
The convenience of morbid aprons singing Kyrie chants.
O Father I see the web ruffles of my wrinkled hands.
Rows of scales my tender times the rows of paper curtains.
O Father I weep for the reassurance of knowing you.
We put our sobs in a basket that the forest steals.
Our peace is following our dream the only dream of you.
Our damnation is waking up.
Waking up is our damnation because we made this world.
It is made up, like party favors, scenery facades, canned laughter.
Stunt doubles, lip synching, masks of sorrow, masks of joy.
We so want to return to you O Father of The Dream.
All we have made is the echo of the voice.
The shadow of the sweet bird flitting across the wall.
Nest of nowhere laughing it up drunk with old soldiers.
Many who knew came back all staring bloody ghosts.
Swimming laughter bandages loading Lugers in the desert.
O Father you gave me the hunger for blank pages.
The nobility not in my arm or hand moving.
Where is the lusty barge overflowing with the maggots?
Centuries of the dead and a good halo party for Mephisto?
A volcanic lumber cocktail and sophistry for the tapestry.
Crying in the scorched fields my how the sky looks heavy.
Slabs of misfortune pretend for the sake of those dying children.
Laundry truck made out of mussels drenched in poisoned tomato sauce.
Quick madness of filmed foot murders.
Nervous energy of the membrane concerto.
I want masks of Fascist animal skin.
Trigger happy nonchalance of a parted curtain.
Argument of the trigger of the beast of the screams without holidays.
No normal rod.
No unexceptional mirages.
Fiery pedals arrange luncheons with iron faces.
Mixture rodeos do a preamble of pus (red and hot!).
It’s the knife booklet running away in Oregon.
They requested opal eye patches for the ice cube tray.
Then the slowly unfolding tarantula shadows pumped gas in 1956.
Obligations met with ironic detachment.
Frustrations arranged with orange laboratory vapor.
Swarms of tuxedos fought on the battlefield of pears.
Good to touch.
Smell taste and dream!
The last piece of orange night argued against immortality.
They assembled quickly because fear and grease wrote sonnets.
Quiet sea foam cabinets staring back at you.
There is umbrage there is mystery The Bowery Boys on channel 11.
Cockpit crisis onstage with Al Jolson’s ghost.
The audience wept because the fire-extinguishers were morbid.
In the mirror of solids so many injuries lurk.
I wanted the ribald texture of liquid windows.
Bookshelves in a rabid magnifier towards filmic dawn postures.
So we resist the dreams someone promised a lifetime of perceptions.
Navajo blankets blindfolded by piano keys on the red mountain.
Wet mantras cannot force children into radioactive toy chests.
Muscles murders mayhem mischief manifold manipulated destiny.
Squeak torture disturbing fountain monks shout “Weird eyes!”
So we persist in dreams we find answers to unasked questions.
We find the rope used to hang virgins.
We find the tireless festering diamond horns.
We find an ancient hunger for our collective Dream Father.
Socrates became a pizza delivery boy for the Washington Senate.
Aluminum bow ties conducted vapor.
A flashlight confessed to front row infant paintings.
You better erase that line, man!
We’re in Wichita.
We’re ready to boil red rope in a gigantic orange soup kettle.
We’re off to saw the gizzard.
It is an enclave of redundant perfume knaves.
Not to mention the skylight slaves dipped in phony songs.
Elongation of ventilated nocturnes enable sapphires in nudity.
Such putrefaction and not an ordinary casket meal.
Deepening the dream like an adorned scarecrow’s mumbling.
It is woven by the night.
It is the other place of light.
It is often mistaken for blight.
Jolly fulcrum labels chased Lassie into Purgatory.
Decadence of bulb libraries engulfed by blue jackets.
That is how the disease tempts effluvium.
That is why mandolins try to hypnotize blind surgeons.
That is where all the opprobrium drifts when owls are disfigured.
Madness of not knowing.
Madness of not seeing.
Madness of not becoming.
Nothing in the perfumed owl motor or is it a doorway mystery?
Esophageal ministry dies during sex mud fulgurations.
Only salt will bargain for male idolatry costumes.
It’s a rubber birthday cake for crippled demonic children.
Raise the sea level with charcoal drawings of lead clothespins.
Ceramic eye soda tried to investigate my kidneys.
And there is no fountain of youth.
And there is no abundance of hope.
And there is no promise of happiness.
So they just strangled a microphone with a raccoon’s diary.
Bring me the dread of Joe the dentist.
Let’s set blood fires in the hallway of humanity.
No one will find out.
We will become famous!
Now there will be an estrangement of dove machines.
Only glued geese could interfere with the King’s bowel movement.
Without rancor or forethought.
The drunken zephyr anointed me with spilling contests.
I must rest.
There is no zest in my unspoken tea cup morbidity.
Your timidity turns my stomach.
Lamb floors removed the ignition from Satan’s wig.
Give me back those necklaces; they stink of hypnotic blood.
Fending off the barricaded nooses.
Slicing up more Neptune solder.
Don’t ya holler fer dat fella.
There’s a creamy magician in my fez soup.
If our dreams truly transport us?
Seems like something in another dimension.
I won’t mention that scientific anomaly.
The moonlit owl in his tree ekes out a living with his ancient mystery.
Nothing revelatory in the history of sleep study.
Be a buddy and admit that no one truly knows why we sleep.
Is it a trick question if I mention that siblings can dream in unison?
Sanitation trucks exploding in the orange elevators of a nursery.
Use nudity like acrylic paint smeared in deep layers on a confessional box.
Time for some sloppy tongue kissing at the 1950s horror movie Drive-In.
So let’s begin with the grand confusion of infinite dreams.
Dream of this.
Dream of that.
Dream of Amazon women sexually torturing the Pillsbury Dough Boy.
My friend Roy said some pretty filthy things.
Watch the clowns burn the clouds with injections of cranberry juice.
Malignant horseshoes drink mascara in Tokyo.
The irreverence of sewing needles hypnotizes excoriated vulvas.
Only the magnificence of parrot perch bars can sanction a bakery.
Midnight watched my slovenly dissection manual.
What if Descartes’ candle was scented?
Imaginary balloon duels carved lava sonatas inside a moose’s stomach.
The landing strip is littered with sardonic frocks.
I am starting to believe that dreams are more real than being awake.
Blind lepers signed up for the fox hunt.
Floating cheetahs proved themselves with aplomb and discretion.
Ghosts gambled with blank dice and everyone had fun.
The evening weeps for bridges made of blood bile and incontinence.
Mildly deranged hunters bargained for special finger privileges.
Wardrobe for killers with persecution fantasies.
Spendthrift candle soup petitioned wild finger murderers.
Tonight I’ll be having good sophistry in a dungaree graveyard.
Plenty of doubts.
Plenty of mystery.
Always searching for those answers from what is invisible.
A risible jump suit writing operas for gas chambers.
Collisions in the tarantula violin case.
Night variations on the elevator dunce.
Unable to dance or piss or whistle.
I want to be beaten with that long purple whistle.
Suction cups migrating into Indonesia with elegant switch blades.
Give up the earnest ermine coat or we’ll inject you with bleach.
Not to mention the haunted submarine from Portsmouth.
Not enough trifold menace.
Not enough enthusiastic solace.
Let’s whisper in front of the vintage Texaco gas pump.
It’s always been about those in between spaces.
Those completely believable interstices of dream time.
Ghost love in dream time.
Ventriloquist voltage mirrors scoff at your dripping brain.
Night time is a special last meal for condemned saviors.
Almost moments of good mud come to approximate life.
Those choked back tears are loaded with arsenic and Eve’s clitoral juice.
I have finished the scaffold.
The wood is rotten.
Tonight they will test the trap door and the rope.
They are going to use Liberace’s piano.
I hope the noose fits and nothing goes wrong.
Glorious magic of the long lost stars.
We want to return.
Be in the form from which we first began.
Time once again to wake up!
Finely tuned torture of the inevitable.
Waking up is our damnation.
Asleep we can have a spirit vacation.
No more desperation sliced by rainbows of isolation.
Let’s call the whole thing off!
Rivalry of phosphorus it’s a haptic hippo pillow.
Weaving deft dances out of weeping rooms filled with the dead.
Never to cease never to quiet itself so we have to awaken.
Shaken again and again we are the plugs of dirt under steel boots.
Who’s in cahoots with these temptations?
Here come the riot faces shooting flames into skull eye sockets.
Deer meat sizzling on a false train of mandolin webs.
Wires smell like a child climbing rotting Buddha statues.
In a clandestine bowl of mirror dances our lost hopes mingle and fall.
It is in dreams that we start to understand.
Not a no-mans land.
This is where the live band plays.
A ship is not a ship without the ocean.
Who’s really alive?
Who’s really there?
Quicksand butter uniform for those pianola acrobats.
I’ll wear spats to the dance of laughing maggots.
Simply argyle bowls filled with electric mucous.
Undaunted fluke pus genuflecting before old smokey trains.
The stain is upon us.
A dream is not a rescue without the tranquility.
Guilty prayers of the shuffling dunces.
Once for “is” and none for “was.”
Who’s really asleep?
Who’s almost alive?
The cover of the magazine is black.
Scrambled rubber antennae soup uses rulers to speak.
Nothing like a ceremony of chanting parentheses!
Squeezing through a crowd of melting bullseye masks.
Not up to the task of daily unforgiving tyranny.
Hearing me?!
Suppose our perpetual lesson is having to return from the dream station?
What if waking up is our damnation?
Solidity of the spiral hallway intuiting aromatic sword liquid.
Fastened to the 1957 Chevy hot road skeletons singing opera.
So many ways back into dreaming but scheming daytime always wins.
Into the waste bins of necessary life.
Agricultural magnate magnets wearing morbid lobster costumes.
Wish I had the broom Dorothy brings back to Oz.
Tell the frankincense vapor to let us in on the caper.
Nothing came out of the dummy’s mouth except an elastic drawbridge.
Stencils ran across the maiden’s naked buttocks.
They used the “midnight technique” to make the owl talk.
Poor bastard.
So what is the answer?
Is waking up our damnation?
What about all that “extra” reality that we feel in our dreams?
Leopards with ivory derbies making grilled cheese sandwiches in Paris.
Old fashioned lepers vomiting excitable sponge cake.
Frenetic ice makers dictating who will live and who will get fucked.
Special metal lizards donating their skin to amateur hockey teams.
Worship of the unborn.
Worship of the vast recalcitrance of humanity.
Worship of the murder weapons stuck to the bloody floor.
Membranes fighting with snappy hotel managers in Acapulco.
Flame throwers volunteering to give rub downs to ant eaters.
Recklessness in the sewers of childhood.
Fancy imitations of the vertebrae of extinct things.
Mating season for fake movie sets.
There is mounting resistance to waking up.
Too much evidence pointing to dream safety.
Waking up?
Is it really our damnation?
Nectar torture chair?
Vengeful recipe for taxidermy broadcasts.
Nude doctor television sets volunteer for space walk.
Electric pastures kindness better off with morphine.
Prisoners of wakefulness!
There is nothing to fear but being awake!
Vanity in ox foot riots then cobalt eye tumbling.
Asphalt grave diggers big band combo fists infected with leprosy.
Odd blank habits seeking unworthy salt towers.
Wake up and be damned!
Stand up and be counted!
Rodent stopwatch trickery saluting odd fragrance concertos.
Fissure facts in forlorn fossil fields.
Quiet paradise of the sleeping penitent.
Dreaming of dreams.
Nostrils chased by demonic harlequins.
Vests in vestibules praying for Johnny Mathis.
A Preying Mantis?
Stained canvas?
Brains in Memphis?
Scripture ordeal with farm risks Clem licks the barn.
Bubbles of Christianity oozing out of jungle cesspools.
Blocks of Judaism rotting in worm clogged lard.
Blisters of Islam in stinking waterfalls of rancid pus.
Hop on the bus?
No need to destroy!
Who said walking up is important and right?
Didn’t Dennett ask why do we need to be awake?
Curious question isn’t it?
Salted lip trucks for a ruby nightie explosion?
Tilted buzzard frivolity must rupture rug tempos.
Clutter of the buttered incense wounds.
It must be nature.
A philosopher with a different view told Dennett.
We need to be awake because of nature.
But his clever response was intriguing.
Nature will do what it does whether we observe it or not.
If we’re asleep or awake there will be nature.
Doing what nature does.
Brewing what nature brews.
Offering what nature offers.
Destroying what nature destroys.
Nefarious gondola without oleander magic.
Nadir output silence in drafty melon hallways.
Does nature sleep?
Is nature awake?
Needs of humans?
Needs of nature?
Long moisture bandits hypnotizing rude rubber radiators.
Blink of time?
Blind of matter?
There’s nothing like sleep to make your thoughts scatter.
Measured jerk soup but the helmet stinks.
Dream time is real?
Dream life is real?
Nectar hammer because maudlin umpires farted.
Radical theories about dreams.
No science can explain why we need to sleep.
Only what happens if we don’t sleep.
Testy turban somersaults for ruptured tropical shadows.
Ridicule in ocean but without flames.
Ventilation eyesight searches for crowbar puppets.
Guess what?
Here’s a unique idea.
One of those radical theories.
Maybe dreams aren’t little movies in our heads.
Roll ‘em!
Flowers sighing in the red suicide truck.
Gift blaze nonsense scheming against leopard lotion.
Maybe dreams are little sneak previews of the other side.
Other side?
What is this “other side”?
Texture pilots examining fallacious odd blood boats.
Not little scenes that our subconscious makes.
Passing through a membrane is all it takes.
Another dimension where our spirits go to play.
Waking up is our damnation in the Hell of today.
Vestibule sonata in the glass hat factory.
Gasping idiots use pigeon feet to predict ulcerated funnels.
Soft blue tonnage when ivory faucets split holy lust.
Clapping septic castanets all oblong in oblivion.
The Hell of today?
Tremors of lemurs in a murmuring crescendo of lemons.
So you mean our dream world is real?
Got that right.
And our waking world is an illusion?
I cannot tell a lie.
Wax nectar midgets scrambling towards ratio pus.
There is no science to explain why we need to sleep.
Much is straw hat torture in a solid jade jeep.
Avalanche of quest bumps curdling in soda.
So sleep is disguised astral projection that takes us over?
Solemn peep bays razed bull infection hat cakes in clover?
Tremendous nightie almonds forgive sea puppets in Hades.
Best lesson of life is to stay asleep?
Vastness of our dream worlds.
Measurement of mind too much too obscure.
So we float out of ourselves?
So we go to the “other side”?
Figments fastened in mental miasmas.
Tubercular giraffe bondage frequent rope museum.
Vast vapor churning clocks.
Special weasel basket on fire in Morocco.
Squeezed out of our flesh into the dream world?
Wrench agony lofty furious loaf retreat.
Purr dance to scream?
Fur prance in steam?
Blur pants with cream?
Cur lance and gleam?

Waking up. It’s our damnation.