15 Oct

in the short chunks of sleep i do get,
i dream i’m in The Chairs
by Ionesco.
i’m one of the guests.
and when the old couple commits suicide
and hands over the decree to the deaf-mute oracle
who obviously cannot relay anything to his audience
strange hands grab at my ankles
and keep me seated
even while i try to stand and pass on the wise words
of the old man.
someone turns on cellophane water
and floods the stage
and i go under, suffocating
(my biggest fear–drowning).
the hardest part about drowning
is actually telling your brain to take in the water;
to fill the lungs.
it works against all wired reasoning.
it works against self-preservation.
it’s a skewed form of suicide.
but always i wake up in a clammy sweat.
it’s 5:55
or 3:33
or 1:11.
three odd numbers, always three odd numbers.
always the same number repeated thrice.
and a giant ominous bird with a distended abdomen
like Brancusi’s “Maiastra”
slinging a sea of mud off its streamlined bronze tail
and drowning me again.

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2 Responses to “”

  1. slyboots2 16/10/2007 at 2:38 PM #

    Theater of the absurd today? Well then. Just don’t forget the bowl of cheerios to go with the chair. Because nothing absurd should be attempted without a good breakfast.

  2. (S)wine, Inc. 16/10/2007 at 7:05 PM #

    i don’t eat breakfast.
    usually.
    but
    the bald soprano
    does.

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