Block chop 92: dreaming

I am asleep now.  I am dreaming about lots of pairs of small shoes going into white numbered compartments, over and over and over again for all eternity.  I am dreaming about the rubbery jelly on the top of decent pâté.  I’m dreaming about top hats and sunshine and peacocks and aortic ventricles and semolina and topological mapological diagrammatical landscapes.  I am dreaming about dust and fluff and lint and hair balls.  I am dreaming about sausage dogs and hamsters and Ginster’s and the Borrowers.  I am dreaming about train wrecks and injuns and cattle rustlers and the clap doctor.  I am dreaming about protein and entropy and opposites and diverticulitis.  I am dreaming about stopping at the red light and going on the green.  I am dreaming about Saturday night and second cousins and neon lights.  I am dreaming about discothèques and bibliothèques and j'ai mal à la tête.  I am dream about bottle tops and tank tops and bottle rockets and top trumps.  I am dreaming about hostility and pregnancy and turpentine and turgidity and complexity.  I am dreaming about book signings and sewing machines and doing a sexy little dance in exchange for scraps of food.  I am dreaming about driving a minibus up the side of a building to drop off Krazy Kat and Ignatz at the do re mi factory in the top branch of Dolly Parton’s elbow scrag.  I am dreaming about rearranging the pages of books to make new and exciting works of fiction in a way that could never really work.  I am dreaming about feet with holes in them and crunchy twiglet sticks where the toes should be.  I am dreaming about protruding hairs from foreheads, palms and nose tips catching fire and illuminating Pluto brighter than it has ever known, allowing the first small flourish of microscopic life to gasp into existence from agitated non-biological chemical reactions, before the hair flames extinguish themselves and the a frozen death returns to the minor planet.  I am dreaming about a smallholding of pomegranate mice doctors devouring forceps by the pound instead of storing them carefully in the drawer, as they have been told to do, repeatedly.  I am dreaming about stacking a car battery on a teetering tower of slightly soggy digestive biscuits in order that I may stand upon it and change the light bulb in the tertiary landmass adjacent to my grandfather’s commode.  I am dreaming about dealing crack on the stoop from the corner of 51^st and 4^th in the hood of Keighley, West Yorkshire where the mome raths outgrabe and spend too much time fiddling with a letter opener instead of using the thumb and forefinger in a simple yet wholly ineffective method of opening a tin of beans.  I am dream about Winston Churchill massaging my buttocks, with the tusk of a narwhal and the trotter of a suckling pig, as an ingenious method of distracting attention from the growing crisis at the Suez Canal.  I am dreaming that I have woken up and put tissue boxes on my hands and feet to protect me from the important downstairs tumble I must complete before the 17:10 deadline.  I am dreaming about seductive photography illustrating sights I will never see except through visual Braille as a blind Saudi thief who no longer feels the need to collect pretty coloured seashells.  I am dreaming about sitting in a tree, well it’s more of a squat really, and I am dreaming about it and squatting in a sort of sitting position in a tree.  I am dreaming about forty-eight and score twenty-two to nil at the challenge rodeo radio coverage.  I am dreaming about ever deceasing circles of water torture instigated in order to extract vital information about the formation of Vittel ice crystals and there reductive cure of baldness, cronery and apathy of the first degree.  I anmdoi cdernmam abouiuts an arrskngemetn of as oj anterfermian tompomopomop tom pomo po mop. AM deemin abnut top yut ronton nut.

Beep beep beep beep.