i don't have bad dreams

lucky me

(this is a synopsis of dreams, some of which are recurring)

i don't have bad dreams.
even when the pulsing sea of cockroaches
is tearing through a humans flesh before me.
it doesn't touch me

when were running through a rotting house
from the butter greased mouths, the
immense hoards of flesh, of the naked gluttons.
and behind every door,
and every closet, every crevice in the wall,
is filled with children’s corpse
which feed there eternal hunger

amusement parks in the sky
hi, hi over the water.
where straps never lock in place
and the cars come of there tracks

the ancient house, one room immaculate
like a museum the next desolate made of rotting wood
rooms leading in to rooms leading into rooms
and each is smaller that the last
then the floor boards creak and looking down
you see the tops of trees
as you sway in suspended
rotten wood
a ghost house of splinters.

a towering wall of rocks and moss
a strangers tells you witch rock to touch
and you turn the handle
and the wall swings open and there in dust and cobweb
an ancient pipe organ hidden with in the stone
and seated upon dressed in dust
human sized birds
dead and dried, in there playing pose of eternal worship
to fallen gods
i push them aside to look closer
at the satanic script, the song book
at the top of the page it reads
"the worship of Satin is a bed of vomit"
but still i long to play those pipes

i don't wake in a cold sweat, it never touches me.
the only thing i fear is the invisible depth,
the dark water somewhere far beneath me,
still and silent,

in every dream.