Stabbing

A dream. A nightmare furls in twilight. And plunges the night into stabbing. Stabbing. A post-modern city in twilight. A shambles of yesterday. Stabbing. A slick ruination. Dark pincers of light. Stabbing. Gangs of insanity run through the night. Stabbing. All through the streets. A series of stabbings. Stabbing. Close-ups of plunging. Knives in the night. Stabbing. Stabbing and running. Running and stabbing. Plunging of knives. Seamless. Shuttles of knives. Plunging. The sleep of reason produces monsters. Stabbing. Cascades of knives. Thoughtless. Lunging with blades. Thrusting. Imposssible knives. Imponderable blades. Improbable plunging. Stabbing. Stabbing and sinking. This dream of stabbing. Stabbings and running. A city gone mad with stabbing and running. Like a dream of a matador plunging. A picador stabs the city of dreams. Stabbing. This is a dream. This is a nightmare. A nightmare of stabbings. This stabbing the nighttime. Stop stabbing. A night so polluted. 

Then waking. 

What does it mean? This city of dreams. This city of nightmares and stabbing. Thoughts are occluded. Mood is diluted. Energy suited to sleeping. Afraid to go back. Afraid to go back to the stabbing.

What I’m Reading:

“We rest.—A dream has power to poison sleep;
We rise.—One wandering thought pollutes the day…”

— Percy Bysshe Shelley / “Mutability”