by Al Drinkle
Summer sleep is a rare phenomenon. And even when its reticence abates, its utility is questionable. How unfairly weighted the seasons are when the same one offers us the most tantalizing mornings, the most sublime evenings, the sultriest afternoons and the most gravid nights. The audacity of the cliché, I'll sleep when I'm dead, could be agreeably rationalized by the proposal, I'll sleep in the winter, one taking full advantage of summer’s potential in the meantime.
I was punished last night for sleeping through a portion of summer's charms. Relinquishing a warm, tranquil evening, I fell into a ghastly dreamscape. There was an effulgent sunset of pure fire (perhaps it was a sunrise?), the heavens consumed by orange, purple and black flames that rained Pinotage upon a parched earth. I attempted to check out of a hotel that didn't exist and nobody would watch the sky with me. My pleas for company were silenced by a soundproof mask, fastened to my face with electrical tape and piano strings - voiceless and forlorn, I sought refuge in a nearby cave.
Shortly after stepping into the darkness, somebody screamed, those flowers are not for smelling!!!!, and bioluminescent blossoms lit a shadowplay on the cave wall. The unmoving air was impregnated with the putrefaction of truffle oil, patchouli and brettanomyces, and the screaming continued as if anybody had a choice over the punishing olfaction. By way of a soundtrack, the world's laziest DJ played Whips and Furs by the Vibrators over and over and over with decreasing volume until I couldn't tell if the song was diagetic, or if it only existed in my head. The shadows vividly portrayed legions of masked somnambulists, their facewear affixed with gaudy chains and barbed wire as they lined up in front of a Walmart, or perched in front of computers browsing Amazon.
THOSE FLOWERS ARE NOT FOR SMELLING!!!!
Suddenly the play ended and I spun around as the glowing flowers feebly cast just enough light to witness the actors responsibly distancing themselves, measured with writhing two-metre maggots. I have never felt so alone in my life. THOSE FLOWERS ARE NOT… and then I awoke, relieved to find that in no way whatsoever does the real world resemble my nocturnal phantasmagoria.
I rode to work, placed my mask over my face and perfumed it from the inside with Mosel Riesling.
