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Subconscious Artesian Think of me what you will, if dreams were reality, how the plastic spatter painter would speak his own affinity to God, while settling in the wasteland that was my dream, with computers synthesizing data in the synecdoche of language. He is a rhythm percussionist; his footsteps jangle his exterior, a synthetic rat trapped grisly bearded psychoanalyst, dog eared rock and roll enthusiast, pounding my brain, a jackhammer as I sleep, then waking me in cold, contusion sweat. If my hands could bend into my own brain, lash through the amount of skin, and pull his symmetrical carcass from me, heaving his paint jackals against my inner earlobes, how I would cease to hear, and only see the broken sprits of dreams, diving like bobbing buoys. Crawling my way out of the inferno of sleep, into the sand, trickling emotions runs down me in a backbeat swerve, swept over by ocean tidal waves, until I am a sandcastle on a beach, pummeled by salt water blue, wondering if my brain be best left ajar.
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