Narciso Jaramillo <**@cs.Berkeley.EDU> wrote: > >i want to fall asleep to the sound of muted conversation, >tendrils of murmur contributing to the tenor of slumber.
Is he? Is he? Yes. No. Prod and find out. Prod and learn. Indeed, he goes now. He is going. Do you hear us? Do you? You are going, now. Go farther. Yes. No. Prod.
>i want to fall asleep while driving; to shudder myself awake, >perhaps too late, as i cross the dotted line.
GodDAMN those acid-droppin' speed-freakin' heart-poundin' how's-my-fuckin'- drivin' lane-switchin' flip-floppin' see-bee-usin' chain-smokin' night-cruisin' mother-fuckin' truck drivers ANYhow, he thought, as he became one with the oncoming radiator grill.
>i want to >rage against the confinement of my dreams, to pound my >useless baby fists on the cold transparent barrier to >waking.
Is he? Is he? Yes. No. Prod and find out. Prod and learn. Indeed, he returns now. He is coming. Do you see us? Do you? You are returning, now. Come closer. Yes. No. Prod.
>i want to fall asleep and lose all my teeth and >breathe, breathe again.
Each time he exhales, calcium is flung from between his lips, and the tooth fairies skeet-shoot. PULL! His chest descends and the crackling sound of their muskets echoes in his mind and becomes the crinkle of plastic as he eats another Hostess fruit pie atop a mountain in his dreams.
>i want to settle down and raise...something.
It was nineteen seventy seven. Carter was president, Star Wars was in the theaters, and the thing in the box was nine inches long. They bottle-fed it daily, but its thirst for blood was growing, and they began canvassing medical supply houses for perpetual-drip IV gear. They were not looking forward to the day they would have to wean it and release it into the city.
>i want to >immerse myself in self, hug and bind myself to self, >senseless, in a dilapidated upholstered chair in a >rest home.
The place on the hill would do nicely. It is run by a thing, no, a person, I think, but the thing and the person and the place and the hill smell of preservation. Does BHT have a smell? It must.
>i want to be posed stupidly in my coffin, >one hand upraised, wrist bent, finger accusing my own >head.
He looks so life-like, so much more so than when he was alive, in fact. Obviously, it's better that he's dead. Now we can finally pretend he was alive. And the mortician even gave him the Kung-Fu Death Grip (tm) as well. So clever. Here, pull his arm, I want to see him strike me dead.
>lights between stations establish a frequency i want to >hum, but if i think too hard on this train, i want, i want, >i want.
The lights are a march. The track beats out a waltz. So confused, so confused. Someone is counting. "I'm gonna count to three, punk. Put down your fucking gun or I'll blow you away." One two three one two three. Yes. No. One two one two one two. Sousa. Strauss. How about a count of four? Maybe do some rock-n-roll? I raise my wand to gain the orchestra's attention and there is a sudden flash in front of me....
>i want to marry the conductor.
The dowry is six cars long and travels at seventy miles an hour.
>i want to become a handstrap.
A strap for the fingers to clutch. A knot for the toes to entangle. A restraint to contain the limbs. A noose, yes, you would rather be a noose. The fingers can take care of themselves but the head needs attention.
>i want to never, ever, ever reach the next >stop, the rail stretching forever, the clanking of >infinitely many cars echoing down years of track.
In the dream, it is always downhill, forever, faster, farther, father.
>maybe i have long enough to teach them all the frequency.
One two three one two three one two three...
...and dreams of a different world; a better world-- a world in which he is always on fire.
"And what would _you_ like to be when you grow up?" asks Mrs. Teacher with a wink and nod.
"Combustible," Bobby replies without hesitation. "Flammable to the point of being explosive."
Kris Thompson (*****@omnifest.uwm.edu) wrote: > Help. I need ideas for a love scene for a romance novel. Any takers?
The heroine and her man are trapped in a steel bunker beneath the Great City as the Implacable Enemy bombards it with napalm. Despite the fact that he killed her father, raped her sister, and burned the farm to the ground earlier in the book, she has fallen in love with him and after several near-chances, they finally make love to the background sounds of civilians pounding on the shelter doors in terror.
Afterwards, he confesses to being a synthetic servant of the alien Greys; she loves him anyway and refuses to leave him. He stuns her with a ray of blue light, removes her uterus and both her eyes with a microscopic laser, and demanifests back to his command vessel.
She brights, like sun. All-around, bask-making. Warm is not enough word. All orbits, surrounds. All is compelled. All turn inward to look upon her.
She brights, like moon. Dependant, tidal-locked. Unable to look away. Lights with the reflection of so many others. Little sister. Little daughter.
She brights, like stars. So far away, so distant. Out-reaching, beyond touch, dancing there. Inspires the thought, out there I will go.
She brights, but does not know it. Too much light, too always-there. Through it, she cannot see; perhaps it is enough that others always can.
I got two heads. I knock 'em together. Knock 'em when I can't think. Can't think. Lotsa time, I can't think, so it's bonk bonk bonk. I got two heads. I look both ways. Look all around at one, both front and behind. See it all, alla time, it's blink blink blink. I got two heads. I talk and hear. Talk and hear, one to the other. I'm my own best friend, even though it's jabber jabber jabber. I got two heads. We got two heads. Left head, right head. Two heads, better than one head, but not smarter than one head. Wish I had one head that was smart.
Wish I had your head.