The Evil Dream
I had a very happy
dream last night
where I strangled the thing
that sculpted me
from nothing, from whatever
whole I was made of.
As it stood before me,
humbly, I grew ever-more
enraged and wrapped my fists
around its song and pleas
because it would not answer
my questions–
not the way I wanted,
anyway–
and so the body faded
like dusty water in my hands
as I leapt laughingly through
the sprays, into the void,
becoming the sculptor of myself;
then empires fell for me
because of my pen
as everything I wrote came true;
and hordes of evil men
descended upon me, promising
their bodies, golds, and slaves
for me to give them
more;
and so I did, delighting
absolutely in their orgies
and total degradation
in the few moments until
it all became so boring,
whereupon I killed them all
with an asteroid strike
of my pen–
before their worship of
my power could lead them
to kill me or rape me
or whatever else they do–
and so I made myself
the evilest, most talented thing,
with a world to myself,
alone, slowly devouring
entire mountains of books
I’d made other people write
for me.
I hated to wake up.
This was partly inspired by a dream I had a few months ago: everything I wrote started coming true; then Ivanka Trump appeared and tried to recruit me to work for her father’s administration. I wish I could say that was the only time a Trump had tainted my dreams, but alas. It’s especially unsettling because you know we’ve reached that point of their regime where nobody would be 100% surprised if they woke up to find a Trump just sitting there, in the room with them. Oh well. Instead of trying not to think about it, I’ll just face the bull head-on and ask you guys: anyone else have any Trump dreams they’d like to share?
Love always,
your Mister
Lonely Hearts Chapel 