Saturday, 10 November 2007

Dream #217 … “It’s Eating Me!”

Stepping out into the crud-hued spit all pitter-pa-tatterin’ about Piccadilly Square he was two inches shy of slipping a fresh-rolled cigarette atween his lips when he noticed that his mouth had fallen off his face.

Glaring down the steps into the belly of the tube station, thinking; Hells blazes, it’s came off away in thonner somewhere…

On the platform probably, swept away with the winds blustered about the tunnel as the train careered off towards Leicester Square. Images of men and women peering nervously at it from behind upheld paperbacks and free newspapers. Nudging one another. “What’s… is that?” … “Fuck me, a mouth with no face round about it.” … Security guards prodding it with sticks, whispering in others ears so as not to panic the commuters - “Be careful. It could be something to do with the Islamists. Could be the very mouth of Mohammad himself there on that floor if you only but knowed it.”

He descends the steps with his tongue jib-jabbing at the flesh now sprawled atween his nose and his chin. Discreetly he eyes the passers-by, looking for someone maybe brushed against him by accident and now has his mouth blathering away on the nape of their neck or the crook of their arm.

Down the escalator with one hand clenching and unclenching. What if he left it on the train? What if it slid off when he was stepping on at Knightsbridge? What if somebody stole it? Some rogue now racing around Hyde Park with his mouth in their trouser pocket, hissing at folks as they pass - “Mouth, mate? Face hole for you? Beautiful fucking orifice, beautiful. Tonne, fair an square. Tonne for a tongue-hut, yes son, yes…”

Black market orifice trading…

“An arsehole for you, darlin’? Oi, mate, an arse for you this evening? An arse and also here’s a vagina, join em up you got a minge you can shit out of, save time, spend it with your children, maybe, or with a Labrador or Chaffinch you might keep as a pet, I don’t know.”

Stifling heat, the air oscillating demented atween the screeching white walls. Dabbing a handkerchief against his brow.


Aw Holy Mother Mary and the Martyrs… My pores are gone…

By the time he’s stood on the platform itself he has noted the following items missing;

One (1) Mouth

Innumerable Pores

One (1) Earlobe

Half (½) Of One (1) Kneecap

Two (2) Retinas

One (1) Nostril

Three-Quarters (¾) Of Each Eyelid

Sixteen (16) Wrinkles From The Underside Of His Scrotum

One (1) Belly-Button (But Not The Fluff Gathered Therein)

As each second topples flailing down the grinding gullet of history, another fragment of his being disappears.

His hair, his lower jaw, the knuckles of his right hand, the fingers of his left…

Delirious with panic, he lunges for a woman stood next an advert for Terry’s Chocolate Orange, gesturing wildly - Help me! Help me please, oh sweet Merciful Fuck, woman, help me! I’m disappearing! Something is eating me! Fucking eating me, I am disappearing!

Eyes wide and teeth bared the woman jerks the head this way and that. “What the fuck!”

He has vanished.


A fella stood beside her offers a hand. “The wind in these tunnels is fierce” he says, helping her to her feet. “Knock you right on your tits if you’re not careful.”

She brushes herself off, thanks him. The train arrives fourteen seconds earlier than announced.

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