My New Jersey is Beckmatic!

My dreams are weird. Puzzling. I am often in a maze. Yes, this is again some old dame's tale. What's there to talk about it? Freud has done glamorous and poking interpretation already. Everything comes down to sex. Moon becomes just another metaphor for a jilted woman greying her hairs waiting for her lover, the sun. To be noted, only jilted men are sexy. Yes indeed there is this obsession about sex, obsession about the sun. It's all temporal, nothing is abstract here. The sun would obviously come, to mate, to eclipse, to teach economics. 

I don't know my head gives me fits, I think there is this tick tock, tick tock on my wrists before I go insane. It's there in the papers, crazy mad woman. When I go extraordinarily numb, I corkscrew it on papers with a vain hope for sanity. I just can't grasp it. She is so fucking agile. Another wrong concoction I try for this syndrome is to sleep which my brain blatantly refuses. All it gives to me is therapeutic consciousness in the form of rickety castles built in midair. I may go on and on about it but no amount of allegory would do justice to its beauty. 

So I bullshit in my head on the commode. I construct illusory, sensory Kubla Khans. I look in the space at the back of your head when we are conversing. I beckon you and it's automatic. Maybe that's why this "beckmatic" because I seem to have no apparent meaning for it. Meanwhile, why do I have to find it anyway? Let it hang somewhere in Nebula but no I rely too much then it gets too much and then this "too much" blurs.

New Jersey, oh I remember there is a place by this mystical name. What am I even doing here? I am buying new clothes for the newborn babe of the boy whose heart I shattered.

Shattered glasses of the shop's window.

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Gosh! How my body cracks in the reflection.

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Jersey? How lovely it hangs on your body. I buy it. Another vain attempt to get hold of all the hearts I lost. I do not forget, I do not, forget! 

Smell of pepper, the smell of Jersey. The desire to borrow yours.  

How hard it is. How illogical. What I need? What I seek? What I miss? 

Maybe the smell. Just that. I think I need to shit on the commode again. I think I go insane again. 

This pain. This pain. My head. My head.

Photo credits: JLF (2020)