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Fox on the Train

Dreamed 2015/1/9 by Chris Wayan

THAT EVENING

On TV, a documentary on 19th Century women who found work on trains--escaping family constraints. The first mass wave of working women, well before many offices or factories would hire them.

Dalziel, a BBC mystery. A death during a foxhunt. A sexy foxhunt-saboteur. Would she do it? Her own dad is Master of the Hunt! They both seem like they want to keep the quarrel in the family, wouldn't go that far. 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 waterhole 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

Law-charged to throw all foxes off, but our
mute guard-custom is to look the other way,
let them ride roofs and in boxcars, unless
they steal; and not all do. Even though

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

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

So guards who frown at me for chatting 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 promiscuity's a mere Mile-High
Club, as we mount the Great Divide. Should I
heed their rail-commandment for species purity?
It too's a refugee from a war-torn land: the past.

Call me iconoclast; to me, all law flees the past.

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


NOTES NEXT MORNING Fox-courtesan; 2005 drawing by Bridget E. Wilde of VCL. Click to enlarge




LISTS AND LINKS: weird dream jobs - trains - guards & guardians - war - deserts - refugees - food - theft - animal people - foxes - babes, hunks & sexy creatures - flirting - prejudice, habit & custom - conformity vs individualism - sex/dating advice in dreams - dream poems - pure digital art

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