A talk on dreamless sleep begins,
and muteness on dreamless living,
but I remember recent nightmares
wherein my life and hedonism
was threatened.
There is a stranger
wearing the banner of an entertainer
his face though,
an antonym to the showman
that might just hold a sleep's disdain.
He sits in the back of the movement,
long after violent dreams,
and a cycle of the same event
washing over the world repeatedly,
each time in new taste and color,
each time a new beginning;
but this is rarely spoken of.
Between these alien moments,
chain-links of god-awful dreams,
or their fragments of neurosis,
rise up into broken experiments,
feasting on the higher madness.
The screamers have retreated,
down into some deep gray hand,
below the sewers of the mind,
waving from some grim future
with gloom as full as stillness..
this dreamless darkness is me.

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