I remember two dreams the most. They are nightmares. The dry rot eyed lady backed by the rollercoaster. Framed mid shot from the mid section up. She is laughing and talking to me even though all is silent. Maybe one day I will understand what she was saying. Who she was. Her eyes are cleanly scooped out, and she is happy to see me, like someone, maybe her, used an ice cream scoop on them. No blood. Split tennis ball perfection in sockets. I scream. And scream. Don’t recall spraying the bed. She came back a few nights that week. And then never again. The other was the first erotic dream I ever had. The pig faced girl in the bank. We lined up waiting for monetary, met some instant and I see that she has old fashioned stocks on. The type tomatoes and melting fruit are pelted at. She had a nice face. Except for the wet dripping pig up turny nose. And the hocks. They were thick slopping too. Twisting. Reaching. Doesn’t talk, just mute gurgles, sneers. I liked her, and even though I’m only four or five years old, feel a weird warmth. Ashamed to be turned on because she is a monster. Not only the slime, but some how I feel, can tell, she is greedy, and taunting, and -. I woke up and was forever fearful that she will one day become a reality. She wanted a kiss, and to be mine, and me hers. The repulsion was also the attraction. I never think about these things. Even though they are my first memories. Sitting here on seat smeared with tomato sauce swinging back and forwards into memories I remember her number. So after checking several pay phones for change I finally find enough to make the dial happen. It rin ring rings for a long time. Then answer. Hello. Hello is that you, how are you, it’s me I’m back I don’t think I died! You have reached me, please leave a message if you have something to say otherwise don’t say anything and hang up. Sigh, meet me at the plaza tomorrow, I will be there. Slam down the public phone cause it’s fun. Freezing sharp rain plitter platters on a drowned daily newspaper showing that some famous blonde waste has made headlines for saying another famous blonde waste looks like a prune. Soggy stale sanitary napkins set sail on the street. Black white mixed skies sweats egg smelling water. Bug eyed man walks past in a crumpdumpled thready suit feeling the wall despite the fact his eyes appear to see. I follow him until the light turns red for cars, moss coloured for us. Roads run everywhere. Being abused by the universe. Two girls in shirts with One Drink I’m Yours, the other Pollution is Bad. Welcome to Greasy Meat, new government policy demands that we have to warn you that you will eventually die if you eat here too much, what would you like? The menu pictures look so fat and wet. What’s a Slider? That’s a double beef patty wrapped in bacon, fried in succulent ham fat, and we’ve taken away the distractions like buns or any salads, tastes and feels just like eating a little pig. You’d recommend it? Yeah, that’s what I get on my break every day. Lean closer, look closer for signs of health decomp. None obvious. But notice her nose is snoutishly turned up, and the eyes looks slow squidgy and pushed together. What else you got? Well there’s the Triple Meat Mystery Meal, It’s pig, cow and a mystery meat, could be chicken, could be kangaroo, could be crocodile, could be anything really, very popular with gourmets and tourists. Nah, just give me a Chunk Chunk Burger with some fries and a Stretcho. Large? A third chin reveals itself as she syllablises this. No, small is fine thanks. Microphone pushes pollution into the oxygen as she calls the order. One minute ten seconds later I have a Chunk Chunk burger, and a recyclable cup of Stretcho. Just waiting on the fries. Yep. Look around the restaurant. Everyone looks paper mache paste pale. Chew chew. Masticulating with no rush. It’s a sea of heads up down chewing. Not talking, watching the screens set up showing repeating images of a nicer outside. Fluoro sits on colon brown walls. There’s a line to the toilet. Pink ice cream melts on the floor. Gherkin green things tile the roof. A group of teenagers sit staring at each other fingers digging into nostrils, only talking when they find something interesting. A mother breast feeds her crying child thick yellow milk. Forget the fries. But they’re almost ready, forty five seconds away. No! Move towards the double door exit. Hand the chunk to an creaky old homeless guy near the door. Pulls away the wrapper and starts biting. He coughs, blood flecks out. What’s the meat today? Think it’s dog rat, but that’s part of the mystery. Lose loose gut change onto the fake grass painted cement. A busload of badly dressed tourists video it. Screaming eat at Greasy Meat! And they do. Forced early sleep next to a road sign that says something crossed out with black paint. Dream badly.
The Sour Milk Suck Experience