In last night’s sleep
the nightmarish visions
of not deluded sheep
simulate incisions
as the blue Nazi glow
in The Mountains of Madness
melt us like snow
and dissolve us to sadness.
In the unrhyming aftermath
of implied Aryan birth,
nazis are defeated and left for dead:
Good riddance to bad rubbish!
And being quintessential explorers
and seeing twin pubescent horrors
where the rhyming never ceases
as our timing falls to pieces.
But what may not be apparent
is that I’m the young man
in living dead film phallusy
who hungers mightily
for pleasures only
a sleeping captive human
audience could love.
I ask myself, if I am truly the protagonist,
then how might I also be this quiescent observer?
This slumbering host body?
How can I be this sleepwalking witness who follows him
through long night light hours
as he mouths disembodied flesh
which I recognize all too easily?
How can he be so real as to
feed my woolgathering desire
when it is I who nurses him through
his hungry nightmare adolescence?
I cannot answer HOW or WHY; I can only say
that we both know it to be true.
I grasp what I can as I struggle
to take it to the waking world.
Stolen movie set arthouse penis is
still pissing and cumming on cue.
Mark agrees it must be fake
as I swallow.
His earbuds are too loud
and though I put up a fight
I surrender in the end
and allow him his jam session.
Clive Barker is a blue/purple devil
in this portrait pictured novel –
the eyes really do seem to follow you, don’t they?
The motion comic images relay
our illustrated conversation.
Is he the devil or a saint?
A demon or a mutant?
X-Man or author?
You can feel him pressed up against you,
behind you,
where his urticating
perforating fur
penetrates ever pore
in pleasurable striation.
Before opening eyes, I wonder
is this Mark curved around me
or perhaps that blue devil, Clive?
I wake,
wrapped in Aaron’s arms,
there is love in every scrap of contact….
completion found in our oft referenced
flesh and blood puzzle.
His scratchy chest hair
pressing firm in the soft of my back.
Without disengaging,
I reach for pen and microphone
as I set out to capture
what languishes inside me,
a dream with much meaning
which can never truly be reclaimed.
Written by Jason Wright
July 31, 2018
