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Fox on the Train

Dreamed 2015/1/9 by Chris Wayan

THAT EVENING

I see a TV documentary on 19th Century women who found work on trains. The first mass wave of working women, years before many offices or factories would hire them. A way to escape family constraints.

Dalziel, a BBC mystery. A foxhunter's murdered. The Master of the Hunt's sexy daughter is an activist sabotaging hunts, but they both seem to want to keep their quarrel high-minded. Would she kill? But someone did...

Then a show on the last Neanderthals. Bones found in a Spanish sea-cave hint they led hard hungry lives and died out between 28-25,000 years ago, in a long cool spell causing a drought in Spain. Revealingly, the sea cave where they'd survived a quarter of a million years wasn't taken over by Cro-Magnons; prime living space, yet it stayed empty for millennia. Just unlivable! I can't see why--all that seafood! Starving amid abundance. Maybe without pottery to store and carry fresh water, trips to the nearest creek were just too long or hazardous...

THAT NIGHT

I'm a guard on a transcontinental train,
here to ward off hungry desert raiders
and onboard stowaways filching buffet.
Forgivable: they're not human invaders

but fox-folk: innocent thieves. No clue
what humans mean by property. Propriety.
A bauble's gleam, a sexy scent, a snack?
Grab whatever lures; ignore society.

Prey today's their way. For tomorrow's
never brought them more than sorrows:
they're refugees from Foxican civil war.
Lope the dust to seek ape-asylum. We are

Charged to throw all foxes off, but our
mute guard-custom is to look away, let
foxes ride roofs and in boxcars, unless
they steal; and not all do. Although

their joy's desert-tarnished, still, foxes glow.
Lovely, lively, lithe. Allure. But O our regs
are harsh: for staff, all sex is banned!
True, none of us obey that relic of the Nine-

teenth Century, back when our lonely line
was spiked across desert, when female staff
were new, vulnerable, asylum-seekers too;
slipped Victorian leashes, fled domestic war.

So guards who frown at me for flirting with
That lissome vixen with the golden eyes
Leaning out for breeze between her thighs,
All discreetly tryst. Yet do their pairings last?

Their monkey affairs are a mere Mile-High
Club, as we mount the Great Divide. Must I
heed their, er, railing?. Purity's a myth!
The Regs are dregs of our lost home: the Past.

Call me a sex-iconoclast;
I say all law flees the past.

Vixen riding the rails in desert. Digital dream painting by Wayan. Click to enlarge.


NOTES NEXT MORNING




LISTS AND LINKS: weird dream jobs - trains - guards & guardians - war - deserts - heat - refugees - food - theft - animal people - foxes - babes, hunks & sexy creatures - flirting - prejudice, habit & custom - conformity vs individualism - sex/dating advice in dreams - dream poems - digital dream art - same dreamer, more sexy train-refugees: Kittens' Quest & The Witch-Pimps (caution: refugees from child abuse)

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