april 23

punching bag dream

The pigeon-catcher stands in a clearing, sifting through feathers with his feet. He looks down all the time, except to glance up and change direction. The catcher finds no carcass, no blood, only feathers. But a shot is fired and a falling bird falls right into the pigeon-cather's open, waiting arms.

Crawling on hands and knees, our heroes soon discover the very ovary of decay, a batch of filth from which every sinister beast originates. Every ounce of sickness and disease pours forth from this vulva of the vile. Slobber and semen boil, hot as molten lead, bubbles up from the orifice and our heroes stand above it.
'Will you dive in?' asked the one.
'I must.' said the other. 'It is the last place on Earth to explore.'

Two men, suspicious of the other, are screwing the same woman. Her name is Roxanne and she has shit for brains. The birds know this and they cry.
The first to produce a ring shall be the winner. But while Roxanne essentially pisses on both her entertainers, she secretly harbors a frightening type of disease. This illness is capable of toppling the remainder of civilization, if it gets loose. So terrible is this version of death that is will grind your intestines to jelly, it will burst hemophiliac cysts over your skin and melt your spirit to mucus.
All three characters die, including Roxanne, but they manage to go to Heaven, a place of dog farts and vomiting rainbows.

Imagine a man standing in line, the register closed, the light turned off, the stored closed, but still he wants his cigarettes.

The street sweeper swerves his truck up onto the sidewalk and snatches me in his revolving brushes of sterility. He vowed to clean up the filth and so he did, so he did.