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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile


08.26.02, monday afternoon

Lately, my dreams have been mosquitoes stinging me awake, my hand flinging itself across my face to ward off bad spirits, ghosts hovering over the orifices of my face, questing for entrance.

Last night I dreamt that you and I were in the kitchen, surrounded by elephants drinking tea from teacups balanced on hirsute trunks in need of Vaseline. Only you didn't look like you. You were whiny and thin, so thin I could have broken you in two over my bent knee. You, I think, panicking, Is this you? Strung out on drugs, bags under your eyes, looking like K., when she was scheming her scams, cutting coke on the coffee table before breakfast.

As we argue, I get so angry that I am suddenly slapping you around, with such force I wake, stunned, unsure of how to expend the energy coiled in muscle and brain and sheet-clenched fists. You? Is this you?




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