Fifth Poem/Nightmare

Dreams are always fertile. One of the things about them is that even in their most fictive moments there is an element of uncontestable truth to the feelings they impart to the dreamer. This is only true in a conscious way when the dream is remembered. What about all the impressions created by the forgotten dreams? They have floated somewhere, haven't gone anywhere really.

Calling this poem a nightmare is an attempt to distance myself from the dark sexuality of the poem. What is nightmarish about the scenario is precisely the nonchalance of the narratorial voice. This is brute sexual-whatever trivialized by placing it on a list of things to do today.


NIGHTMARE

I would rather than anything

go to Drinky’s and rape a drunk

strumpet in the bathroom.

Her tears steam the mirror,

which receives the grease of her face

as her Himalayas I penetrate.

And then afterwards I deliberate,

about what toppings I want

on my $4.00 Make-it-Yourself-Quesadilla.