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Dreamed 1982/11/16 by Chris Wayan
For the ghost of Lennon and the mad daughter of Joyce


Forgive me, O my reader, for I sin again--
I mixed my drinks! In one ear poured Finnegan
(as slithery Claudius did, to Hamlet's dear old da)
while in me othear climbed A Spaniard In the Works. Ah,
Lennon and Joyce, what a marriage of true mynahs!
I nest betwyne, in a mynage a twaht.
(Shtup me, ere I punnigan!) To read
this dream o' two rescues, child and man,
go slow--chant aloud, no, LOUD! So watt
if you stub your tongue's toe on meanful misspells--
don't we all? Ah, it slobbers, puns, and yells,
yes sing as if you're still a half-drunk Celt
goddess--your ax-sense thick! More King Lear.
Good, a bit more leer. You'll do now. There.


I raft the riverrump, sitswaying thru canyonely lands. Drie dust desert ground inderfaces of hagged shabbers onder banks... bad land, and hardt of Islamicruels and skinciples, nero as sigh of a needall... Allaw trictly up lied!

A girlil crI up onther bangsk; horr if eyes wrathchers, who see it as sin to stan naking even ass a chilld...

Criiii. Scraped, escaped, RAPED. One these so-colled "oltzeimer elision" folk, all saberclean in All's eye, and in the ice of hiss nabobrs... such a sAin't raipped that girl orffour. and Ion raft hear these hole ly God-fouring foulk belame lilch kid for pervocal the crime! By lioving, bein' lil, fem, ilone, gunless, aweake?

They'll chorejure her, shorture stature and later reza razoraged moneyment when shease safely deaded! Procrusty bedded babe beheaded.

I roar to shoar, angee comes running &...O relief, they let er leaf alife! Justs O theloathy evrydence erapced... Onely care for there repuke.

Ann Soshe gang a plank.

Ann down the river rol a raft along... true da badlan, wit da sadman... me.

Ann toothy great grin blew and grayvly sea.


Now a shore is a land with an end, hence a possible ship-friend, and

"alway broader be a border,
sence all frogress breeds in worter."
Aye, the sieze the blue bload o' humans' artefishyal congeries, divers trade art'o'reads, bobbles and cangles and mystery beads. So folk by the olshen are broad hearted, blue haunted, Ann theyll taker in: seafoke allweighs underland a victame! Sob bury many drowned in sea-sod; see Poeple solem walk above agreave and know a loss...
Guts o'continence' flinty waze
Nohow sooth yer raw abrades.
See ka see!
So I leav Ann So by anew heart, to grow houlygain, by love and taller aunts.


I seekle up stoop stemed hils afog, to hoom and hum bellow the fa ghourn's light...

In too-separate cobbins, olding frinds compuse ther crytpick tuones. Pual and Jhon: a music ne'er stop, alwy clash: Paulayful lilts, but Johm face shatterd pane and seesawd self... ne'r peace, less joy... and yet appauls shaullow in the laung rum. (A rum pun. A rum jest. A dead man's jest.)

Alsince I war a youngun
I pferd the sole Beatall--
From Sober and the Brightone
I John amostly foll'--

(tune "Painfall Wisart" by the Whom)

But now? Joh's musicle push out Pauls! Loudly lauds, bitterly booms. Faced pain's his facet, but he reign on the Palrade... sHellow extravagert's half rights two! Fur the fur stye min my life I fell closert to Poil! My foimer oinemy. O, I'm dun, woverine dung wit piss-an-morning my scantry past. Now for cooin and wooin, and t'hell wit rooin! Live in one fine leap, as poolish Paol poprose Allah lung. I feel filly yet fun: gloom played its run!


So I entire Pacarneys cabing. He's their butt out: unconsience undie flour! When his soun droun doubt, he too drooms! He swoons in rooms.

I creatle his head. I'm relived: he waches whiff a grown. "Hwen emmy?" Pall mons.

Says I "Five years gone."

"Jondorned me?"


and i grief as I groove and I canthelp sway and likelp move, to the current of moody musikness lennonother cabin born... ill hellth exorcised, pured in crack of ampli fire; his mad turn choir. I grieve as I move as I leave as I love: and I sigh unto Paul, asudding visin of to come:

"Take yorm usic sere yesly, build & craft & say... for soon yollone in cabbin play. John die soonday." Recall that John talled this Paul, in der view befor he die, "when Macartsy take his elf sinceriously..." So I chant to this drowne man:

"Lilt and build yore-craft of joy
Face talent: tis no toy to break
A man your fend who tell from grave
Gravely charge you carrylone!"
Poor John can't carrion, so some anew must now our challenge meat. They took you from we. Confessin notes as playn as a pionear shudde! Blown like a rose away... Fuzz petal gone. Oh, John.

Now I, alorn in discoldant 20th sans-cherie ... I wrait... and wite... for someone right--or till, like patint John, who tilled his toil, I shudder off this murdal coil.

Or learn to tell my truths, with joy or sans;
To shape my flounderlife I stretch my hands.


The two victims are surely sides of me, prometheii once bound, set free.

The two rescues are symirrorish: Save Ann from c'rule-based deny-ers, save Paul from c'rule-smashing confesser.

Easy to scorn Ann's folk, for I mist rust de-mentalists (whether fun- or un-); far harder to criticize Johnny's deppth. Elbow room for shallows is on so few agendas.


Ann Soforth was a name coined by L. Frank Baum. My dream remembered...
But let's not fan REM embers! Douse the spellfire, scatter the ashes.
Time to go back now, back to mortal shores,
Where all the spells are checked. John's, Paul's, mine... and yours.

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