Feste's Lute

Scribbles & Sketches of the Unspeakable

Tag: dreams

Growing Up

Corpses clutch each child. Their dark, brindled meat a backdrop for soft faces. Cracked fingers press to ankles and wrists, dead sockets stare deep into bright, young eyes.Yet in those wide eyes there is no echo of youth, no shadow of innocence. The children are anguish and anger as the dead hands and dry mouths move to comfort them. When asked gently of their hurts, they respond with lies.

The pain in his neck would cease if you could just twist his head a bit farther. Sickness would fade if these lead pills could reach her heart, simply pull the lever to make it right.

One by one, dark humours of fury and sadness spill onto the corpses. Pale arms and fat ankles sink into accepting embraces, while in the rotting eyes there is only an innocence and sad confusion.

Sometime Today…

… I’ll probably post a small prose piece. It’s not something I do often since I really don’t think I’m good at prose. I’m bad at description, bad at dialogue, bad in general in that form. So when I do post prose, it’s almost always inspired by dreams.

Once in a very long while I’ll have a nightmare involving zombies. I’m not a horror buff, so there’s not a lot of external influence, but in my dreams zombies are always better than us. Smarter, more virtuous in many ways. Last night’s dream continued the theme.

A Purring Cat/Emu Mix at the shopping mall

Ok Mr. Freud, with your dream analysis, any thoughts on what that might mean?

Delirium Spinster


By tar-feather shores,

dun mares descend prancing,

outlining haunted abodes.

Zephyrs will wind,

Branches drop back split,

and Recall repair

to cottages 


weakened by

nested wakes and 

ill maid consumption.

Submitted by: kholinar

moving this over…

smoldering fennel

The bricks broke,
made headway.
Throw in-laws
Slip shouldering
through portholes
down fretboards
Can kanji to
Fists cuff lynx,
Clause gaping
plague entry

Splintered Perspectives

I suppose that this is less exciting with the advent of Inception, but over the last couple of years the idea of dreams as alternate universes that we view in unconscious states has fascinated me. It is somewhat inspired, I suppose, but Proust’s fascination with the confusion of waking. We’re never really confused when we enter dreams, it’s only afterwards that they seem strange. I posted something about it last March:


Anyway, this is a continuation of that idea:

The Eyes Have It, But Who Has Them?

When he awakes, his eyes are his own. Every night they are taken. He hardly dares to close them. But sleep finds its way inside his thoughts, slowing them, cold hands on his neck massaging out tension and care. Then lids slip downward and he feels them begin to leave. The flashes of color, the sketches of old trains and film-grained men riding unicycles. Images unrelated sweep past those eyes as they slowly untangle blood vessels and sever nerves. And finally into darkness as ether begins the countdown.

Sometime in that blackness they must drag him away, down crooked hallways through anesthetic air. Through a doorway that catches his ankle as he passes and into a padded stock, arms dangling.

He’s forgotten who he was.

The scar is on your left wrist.

This is not your house.

But he looks out and sees it, and his hands seem familiar. He remembers the bent ring finger, caught in the high bar when he was eight. When she tells him she doesn’t know him, he cannot protest. He’s almost forgotten. And even as he accepts it, he wonders which man they drag off into the night. Will he awake to that or fall into sleep from this?

Another Landmark of Dreams

The Northern Path

Return to the place of divergence.

An unconscious man poured out on the floorboards.

In each conversation, when we speak of travel, he tells of a road in the north.

“At first it seems common… If there are gentle hills, these sidle by like lambs toward a clover. Never a curve ahead.

But the dark earth pulses… ley-lines strung loosely on telephone poles. Sometimes we balance on them and feel ourselves pushed along above the thick, oak branches. When clouds shadow the path, young ivy creeps along its edges.

Dark, square sedans hurtle along the length. Every exit swings on hooks, they rotate on their racks like gates in a pinball machine.

Once your feet have taken a single running step on its surface, once you hurtle forward, once you send the wind retreating to the parcel (still in the hands of careless men), thoughts of flight seem vulgar.”


In one she lies in bloody paroxysms
eyes flutter
In another strolls beside me without a scar
eyes flutter
In others my brothers genuflect
eyes flutter
In this my nephew fills a fresh-dug grave


Dreams come before me with familiar casts and scripts. Without a moment of confusion I find my mark. All the details fill me.

In this one the hall runs this direction.
In that one a dumbwaiter descends to horror.
Above the garage is a thing of power.
Can I cope with the thought that he’s gone?

But is it all fluttering eyes and subconscious process? Is it all imagination, creation of minutiae? Or do I connect to something else? Does my mind instead find someone somewhere beyond the curtain? Someone in a mystic place. Someone with a home like mine or a darling child that inevitably wastes away.

Sometimes I think it’s just too familiar. Sometimes these dozens of revisits wear at my certainty.

In the hierarchy of dreams, for me, these hold portent.