Clandestine Dreams

Los Caprichos #43: El sueño de la razón produce monstruos. (The sleep of reason brings forth monsters). Francisco Goya, 1799.

I sleep at night and dream clandestine dreams,
of divine misinterventions,
of hope gone bad, stale, rancid,
smells like dead meat,
scent unfamiliar to the butcher,
for to him, it is all too familiar.

I sleep at night and dream clandestine dreams,
of finding you wrapped in love
with another
smelling like her sacred parts
screaming pleasure seeping
from all your pores.

I sleep at night and dream clandestine dreams,
of christian lesbians,
pointing their bent fingers,
disgusted at the normal acts,
Laughing shrill laughter
in judgment.

I sleep at night and dream clandestine dreams,
that I long to see your face,
twisted and skewed
with disappointment and pain
as I wrap myself in sweet revenge
of butcher sam's thick cleaver-holding hands.

I sleep at night and dream clandestine dreams,
of your white face drained
haunting me, ugly
laughing, made a fool of me
fornicating, cuckold the word came to me,
reeking, the smell got a hold of me.

I sleep at night and dream clandestine dreams,
of stabbing hearts, red and full,
of killing you,
and then I laugh,
I laugh and watch,
watch the blood drip down the white walls.

I wake, and then do clandestine deeds.
and see you,
see you sir,
lying there
dead
for a week.

point my bent finger
and laugh a shrill laugh
judgment of death, sowed,
one to be reaped.
as maggots creeped,
and your rotten flesh reeked.

and as you smiled, that breathless smile
through sinister crooked teeth,
I heard you whisper, "I have won"

Then, I woke, and then I wished
I never dreamt
those clandestine dreams.
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