hypothetical dreams

i dream dreams about meeting people i know, dreams of
hypothetical deaths, dreams about people i haven't met but
have already fallen in love with. i dream of dreams coming
true and dreams of sorrow as well as dreams of inflicting
sorrow. lover dies, lover mourns. salty tears tasting all wrong
like acid searing skin off bone, H+ and OH+ coming together to
destroy (selfdestruct), bittersweet and lovesick. he wails my
name in the vacant bathroom his
twisted paperclip bones splintering skin
as he bounces it off dirty washbasin mirrors, to see
if it's still real.
but i have nothing left but starless eyes to show.
dreams simulated by white matter, substantia alba
ghosts of latin names haunting the
moon of my skull. sparks of electricity sear through
filaments of neuron, drowns itself splitting its own corpse
into two to fit in the double tear ducts before light
streams through the slips of your eyelids
but you just can't stop it from coming through.

Hypothesis: a play

Hypothesis: a play


Act I Prelude

{The tap spurts on, water cascades and hits the tub with the deep rumbling you hear as it collides with the water already inside. [time: ] The tap turns off, followed with the sound of waves gushing back and forth tinkling (the sound water makes when it’s being disturbed). The tap drips, the rhythm erratic as it slows to a lazy pace of falling as the sound of breathing and faint scraping (shaving) accompanies.}

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darling money

In the dark, the banknotes rips viciously against my thumb, wafer light slices of fiber watermarked and embossed fortune trapped between my fingers. The dirty smell of money permeating the dark claustrophobic space. I can feel the way the molecules of fresh cash pushing up my nostrils, busting the blood-brain barrier.
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and i ask her, when since have you started to smoke?


Jessica Stanley: that goddamn retard. I mean Bella, not Varner. She’s got like, human bone meal in her cranium instead of grey/white matter. I talk to her and she’s dazed, eyes misted over looking at the ceiling fan (whir whir and blur), like she’s autistic. Her pupils dilates and I can see the grey stirred up mush through them, like her eyes are wrought iron gates and the shit’s starting to pool out between the iron laced bars.

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