Dreaming, Soon as The Ceiling Man Leaves (manuscript from last year revamped)

I.

It was all a matter of motivation within that dispensation of persons present, everyone involved in the murder of Hambretcht Neuman on a particular sanctuary’s crepe not bedded with a corpse covered, nor a sound disturbing the body of the old man hereafter until I, out of cowardice and gut-gnashing obsequiousness arresting my coefficient hands and toes, later reported guilt to the finding of a sledgehammer I had known was the one I had smashed repeatedly into the senior Neuman’s bad lung, where moreover, the whole abdominal side of him was broken to bits(ribcage, a sorry game of shooting veins against pulverized ladders; wheezing, his lower jawline push out the inflexion of haunting ligaments left unspoken for; polysemic). 

And I talked to the police first thing in the morning. It was the right thing for me to do at that juncture. After all, I was responsible for the poor defenseless man’s state of affairs today, but I was not without accomplices at my first slight of hand, the preceding ordeal drove down through an open house with no windows and no doors left behind , an informal malevolence came to the sectioning of myself from the body I was already done with.

There was my romance with his grandson, Antwon Neuman, largely complicit with the persuasion side of inciting the murder. He was barely into his adolescence, expiring from his nascent prevention toward wanton longings forthcoming. He was nineteen years alive when he first asked me while he was looking down the mud on my attire, Do you think you can help me kill my grandfather? He will not be of much resistance, I swear to it. It will free me of a great deal of burdensome tasks I would otherwise be fitted with assuaging. Sensitive matters. But once you have done it, we can run away toward the woods and never have to look back! Me and you, streaked in his acidulous legacy, reeking near the creek, rinsed in our actionable secretions. He was naked, Antwon that is, eating the aged entrail he segmented from the old man, cooking it unevenly over a fire he manufactured from electrical wire, cooking it on a big metal pipe he took from his grandfather’s small kitchen sink, skewering the ropey tangle of ornery tract until the fire had singed the gout into his jowls, and through this sequence, we ate. When I kissed him during our picnic, his mouth was pinched from revulsion but his teeth were still powdery from the gunk building underneath all the fat, throbbing from the heat channel to a length of gristle. With bloodstained smiles, he ate throughout the previous evening, enchanting little one creating this scene for me to wake up to, sufficient in the hour he teased to pull the meal past the thresher of good manners. I followed him alongside a trail of pinkish-cottony cord, kissing below where the creek and the place where we staunched the fire, there it had terminated into a brief bliss, us boys finishing our servings, raving obscenely of our comeuppance.

It was a wrongdoing that I had to have been born in this reality and doubled then under the realization that I was a defective example of this species most born onside have noticed when I have been joyfully curby, albeit recondite for somewhat in allowing my language abrasion inadvertently but not without flagrant display orally please remove irony and/or tonal content, all these on scrupulously closer examination was enough information to sustain the process of elimination, finding this integral disease in me that you have caught I went off toward distant realms of nature to obey in lieu of having not been able to be a part of that determination for yearning massacred to many masses members who are renting out that superlative of their opposing team in relation, they are shilling to make us believe in a certain flippant humanity, pervasive and perhaps fashioned from this article of deep power singular since sinewy in these cases, years following our investment into the dead ones successful at staying put.

Where myself and that harried cadaverously crooked grandiloquent oldie Hambretcht was the man who at that hour converge with the hand wires of fate, whereas his hands were maimed by the rock I had grabbed from the ditch outside his home, which was also how I was capable of entering inside his drawing room with broken walls of glass sink to cling to the ground up fragile fragments creates a clear opening for an intruder to get the defenseless dissolved senile troglodytic German dotard to kowtow handsomely. He was hidden in the refrigerator when I got back from mutilating and separating his organs from a cavity that had been newly blasted into his chest, which was in the bathtub and the lights were not on, so the viscera bubbled throatily as the eldest was electrifying in extinguishing his innards, as if his veins ride right after his blood was the sky, and his spit was flooded by skydiving so it tasted like copper drank sipping siphons of aquiver, underwater.

But what of my idiopathic backstory? Incredible no one has been exempt from the downriver sludge that is sympathy distributed in what is turbidity to a particular point of varying type, classifying conditions for children dealing with decisions of denial. 

II.

Please, I am at a devastating loss of unctuous treasure if I cannot incite shock without having rewarded that kernel of consensus that I implore the reader, if it appears appalling to accost you in this extinguishing guise of sedative remorse, then tonight once the authorities have decided to seal me behind walls for a very long time, through a raw knuckled pounding at my jailhouse lodgings I will never in almighty confidence betray your fascination at my outcome. My outcome is my decision, and that's for the public's enhancing correspondence with my punitive phase of my career as a psychotic lunatic, a madman and an unrepentant sodomite coprophage caught red handed with a young boy unwitting as my accomplished companion.

III.

It would be the only dream I have encountered during a numbly contrite weeklong cloister I was sleeping through near the ending of that summer, the five or perhaps seven days of bright weather and breezy playtime went on without me, and then the ceiling was built up by a man I did not dream but he would permit an aperture into my place of rest; whereas I did little for his viewing pleasure except writhe among my own shadow's larger angle, hibernating with exhales almost all teeth and not a tongue under the roofless dark, about on a mattress that spread without light for my company. The man who constructed the ceiling was not inside my dreams but he had a better experience with viewing me once the dreams started flickering inside-out from the edifice of fatty gelatin and calcium build-up that amounted to my skull, which housed that elusive organ of irrational effulgence in the dark, hiding my soul from my own thoughts, conical. Across from where I slept in a hypnagogia of tumid, convulsive musculoskeletal at a recumbent prone, beyond the smooth and almost imperceptible aperture the man who was within my ceiling had punctured with an infinitesimal and vertically concise instrument which I believe could reach down down down until he was lunge past the limits of this structural design he was once paid to assemble into this planar wall of ichorous darkness between my eyes agog, and then how again was it that he was so careful yet devoid of violence in manipulating this appendage presumably chromatic, his eye glittering through this periscope of light and somehow none of it is his business once he has been seated as an audience of my languid dreaming. He was unable to pay me for the theft of privacy, privation in his handfuls of furtive glowering toward my person like he was visiting a dying reality from another stratosphere of earth where he was an antenna in a skein of dwindling nightfall, incandescent and incidental. Motion was to unfold manifold soon in my dream, and alongside this purely faint life behind my head and eyes like a clay face that is the skin and bone under all that confabulated flesh and blood and nerve that only felt endless whenever in pain, that bodily concession one sits with and is abject to the animal fear not having been understood by escaping the world of clay that breaks apart your mind and body with the practice of having life be nothing but ceaseless terror and strife under the closed eyelids where rapidly, the climate of this primordial place of consciousness is nothing like in the movies or in paintings. Dreams are as incoherent and as palpable enough for it to be intoxicating enough, for hours sunken under that nothingness of space without knowing any logical action other than that of coarse, narcissistically ephebic deciphering of ourselves into archetypes, into plausible exaggerations and fabricated testimonials of dreams about such experiences because we fixate on how little we are all able to comprehend something we gather so much significance from. It is probable that to dream is another malady, just as it is to be alive or it is to be brought into the larval control of death and decomposition, all the colors of rot and putrefaction and dissolution have become the texture of your dreams only now ending in a flashlight of recursion, each deadening synapses a forgotten memory utterly destroyed only to be repeating itself to undead abstraction to be then ate by the world we are dreaming of devouring to our hearts but our reality in dreams is determined to make us happy and purposeful with the corrosion of our minds and our experiences we once had lived, and now turnout as acquisitions for this slime-fraught organ to be the source of idle entertainment for people who want to harvest emotions from judgements passed on by the nonessential gibberish that they daydream amid having been included in the audience of your dreamt existence, you a vessel and your suitor a good sign that the self is never alone in emptying itself of how little it is persuaded outside of pain that there is a picture of completion ahead. The man who is within my ceiling, watching this coalescing inside me and meeting his obscure needs by my own human frailty give him a defenseless fixity to his own sleepless cloister, himself all night indefatigable with a superstition that both attracted him to the sight of me twisting and screaming during sleep, and then him screaming at such a ludicrous crescendo that it oscillates between white noise and deafening clicking that his throat creates, and then this is perhaps why my dream that unusual night was orchestrated by an explosive and elliptical litany of images and sounds and places that were not without flagrant suicide of the person who went into that dreamt recessional, and only grew misty with perspiration and snot when I was blown apart by having later woken in a cold shivering of all my previously unfeeling blood, leaving me unfettered within my skin and carried long-ago into the throes of fresh surreal nowhere, which housed a little receptacled forever until it is missing from me and struggling to find meat and air in scavenging the way out of someone else's destroyed head, the ache of newer limits to dreamt incarnations will be only used by a desultory proximity to a realm where someone will need to sit and witness the ordeal. There is amusement and astonishment that gathers from the unclean overlap this ontology of dreaming which I supply the reader, and the man above me is speechless but not without a knowing pause of his touch, then back-and-forth scratching his chest and neck and shoulders until he is ready to break his voice and screech morning from a lungful of his own heartless paroxysmal burst against the fray of keeping my dream isolated, or until he erupts with my facsimile and becomes fascinating with organs outside his space where he is not able to reach my dream but takes his leave, abruptly violent against his own sensuous fear now a matter of agony beyond words, and beyond the threshold there finally enters the trickle of blood sent from upstairs during this process of dreaming. The ceiling screened a bloodbath which will only hurt on the outside of this interior, and there beneath his hands without him having attachments for his loss of form he would touch me with a phantom softness once I later woke up in a cubular space arcaded by his exploded and bloodied body, but his face would have a hard time making sense of how I woke up screaming and here I was, teleported where he was reduced to a landmark of where dreaming halted, and emerged disembodied within the death of someone else who has been sacrificing sleep so as to be a gateway for you to linger in their pain smeared across a wide and echoless of dreamless space. The ceiling was leaking the dreams of the dead giblets that the man manufacturing the sky around my bed bends into transparency not unlike a wormhole of deep sludge one can call the very mana, profuse and chthonic penumbra hosting all but blissful and stygian oblivion, pulsing with the pure nature of dreams where we surrender our corpses just to be a distant relation with eternity, highly sought and no one is wiser or does nothing but stave the dream itself from having replication not desultory. 

IV.

That man in the ceiling was not the old man Hambretcht. 

It then occurred to me that there was only such a brief bliss of privacy, and the price of seduction into the illusion of responsibility is due upon awaiting away from all that was provided and instead of waiting until we eloped, Antwon gave up hope sooner than I expected, but it was only a little surprise. I had so much leftovers to have a pleasurable encounter without having qualms for me, having quarrelsome fun with a few dead men, jitters when I was awake throughout the preparations for disposal. It was a lot of fun had at the expense of their pain and I laughed.