World Dream Bank: Santa Clump

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Santa Clump

Dreamed 2009/9/16 by Wayan

I clutch a clod of chocolate clad
in purple glitterfoil.
I love true bitterpure cacao,
but this is a milked and sugared
jag-asteroid of oil.
But I peel & gnaw this crag too sweet
and settle by Tale-Teller's feet
with her disciples up on stage--well,
a hilly model landscape, veined
by tiny living rails.
We unavoidably block some trains,
for they bottleneck hooting through our dell
like a snaggle of yarn through a fist:
a snowy pass through Siberian hills
just a meter high. Well, not true snows,
just glued fine-shredded memos--
(far too warm and air too stuffy
for truth in this corporate lobby).
The Teller stretches her rangy legs
and starts a shivery tale I know
I'm just going to hate. Brrr! Pure snow.
Never my favorite flavor.
She speaks of a newly minted clutch
of mall-bound Santas in truly botched
outsourced outfits--some tropical firm
weak on polar myth. Unsuitable suits
of fake white fur, as if Claus-in-Boots
were a bigger Puss with a seasonal coat.
Sketch of a dream by Wayan: storyteller and listeners sit on a miniature landscape of hills, pines, fake snow and an HO train track.
This endangered polar pack
of secular saints now (quaking) stands
--glum ol' clump o' chumps!--
in a white-out blizzard, on a curb
in some megalopolic Yankee slurb.
Forepaws flail, through sleet they bellow,
Kringle their bells, and hail (through hail)
for a nice warm cab, poor furry fellows!
But cabbies all figger these shivering buggers
are bleached-out ursine charity beggars
so cabs farewell! Bear (warily) others...
You know their tale will end in froze.
For haven't we heard this hoary story?
Or Little Match Girl, its grandforemother.
Although these corporate waifs have more
insulation--sans thumbs or toes,
they'll hobble, crudely ambulatory--
polypro furball amputees
like veteran bears from the Arctic War...
Feh. Who cares? They're a tale, no more.
Cornered, cold these contractors be?
Let 'em contract! No skin off me.

Sketch of a dream by Wayan: guys in Santa Claus beards and hats (but furry and white, not red) in a blizzard, ringing Santa bells and waving their arms.

WHO, WHAT, WHY???

Inept guys, stage/dais, climate: Last night I saw a comedy trio at the tiny Climate Theater in San Francisco. The rest of the audience apparently loved them, but I had trouble with the play's structure. The climax (admittedly funny--a heckler in the audience takes over the plot) wasn't worth the long setup where they have to be convincingly bad enough to justify that heckling--and they were bad, just not bad enough to be good. See...
Well-acted dullness is still dull. I mean, I can see stupid on the street for free. It's intelligent I long to see.
Adulterated chocolate, when I want the real thing: the play's humor felt as calculatedly adulterated as cheap chocolate. Since I'd prepaid, I just sat and consumed filler and sweetener. Shoulda stomped out and saved my time at least.
Miniature railroads: I admit the comedians did Shy Male Geek quite well. The kind of geek who builds miniature railroads into whole empires in the basement. I should know; I was one. Did their humor hit too close to home? Could be. Or it was just too familiar to me. I learn more from other types of craziness than my own. I know my own.
Stuffy corporate lobby: the theater really was hot and airless. Maybe the real reason I couldn't work up a laugh was CO2 poisoning. Maybe those guys were profoundly original.
Yeah, and maybe I'm a polar bear.
This is Poem #54 in the Dreamverse Project.

LISTS AND LINKS: food & drugs - trains - masks & disguises - holidays - a Santa nightmare: Rasputin Claus - snow & ice - cold - bears - dream humor - poetry - the Dreamverse Project - the next Dreamverse: The Dog King

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I clutch a clod of chocolate clad in purple glitterfoil. I love true bitterpure cacao, but this is a milked and sugared jag-asteroid of oil. But I peel & gnaw this crag too sweet and settle by Tale-Teller's feet with her disciples up on stage--well, a hilly model landscape, veined by tiny living rails. We unavoidably block some trains, for they bottleneck hooting through our dell like a snaggle of yarn through a fist: a snowy pass through Siberian hills	just a meter high. Well, not true snows, just glued fine-shredded memos-- (far too warm and air too stuffy for truth in this corporate lobby). The Teller stretches her rangy legs and starts a shivery tale I know I'm just going to hate. Brrr! Pure snow. Never my favorite flavor. She speaks of a newly minted clutch of mall-bound Santas in truly botched outsourced outfits--some tropical firm weak on polar myth. Unsuitable suits of fake white fur, as if Claus-in-Boots were a bigger Puss with a seasonal coat.

This endangered polar pack of secular saints now (quaking) stands --glum ol' clump o' chumps!-- in a white-out blizzard, on a curb in some megalopolic Yankee slurb. Forepaws flail, through sleet they bellow, Kringle their bells, and hail (through hail) for a nice warm cab, poor furry fellows! But cabbies all figger these shivering buggers are bleached-out ursine charity beggars so cabs farewell! Bear (warily) others...	You know their tale will end in froze. For haven't we heard this hoary story? Or Little Match Girl, its grandforemother. Although these corporate waifs have more insulation--sans thumbs or toes, they'll hobble, crudely ambulatory-- polypro furball amputees like veteran bears from the Arctic War... Feh. Who cares? They're a tale, no more. Cornered, cold these contractors be? Let 'em contract! No skin off me.