Sweat Dream

sweat card

Boxed in. A last gasp for breath through a long straw pulling bubbles out of soda pop bottles, thick air, steam faced, lungs burned. Dry mouth stench, suck in, snore out, whimper, whine, choke on spit, gasp. This heat is unbearable. It is a dragon pulling its tail through parched nostrils, flying its circuit, grimacing its contempt for life. Burn, everything, burn it wants, it loves you to ashes. I’m swimming in a pool upside down floating towards the bottom, refreshing, drowning, sulfuric. Wake up. I can’t. The body realizes it is thirsty and sizzling, seized in paralysis. I know the windows are open. I know it’s 6 AM and I should wake and find shade for the morning but sleep is home and home is wear the burn is. It’s the 18th day and I’ve seen my skin through time lapse stretch and thin, the flakes on my lips showing the world a drought field, lick-stained, ouch. It’s going to be 108 degrees Sunday. My eyes drop and my gaze wavers in a defeated moment, slow blink, heart sinks, heart seizes. Am I having a waking heart attack? Every inside part of me wants to excrete out of all my pores. Sweat is winning, clothes are losing. Swamp ass. I want to eat some fruit. Some watermelon and pineapple chunks would be nice. A little sweet succor to light on my tongue, give me moisture, give me closed eye smile. Am I smiling? Did I eat something? Wait, I’m still sleeping, body contorted and rigid in ways non-acrobatic. Elegance is on the other side of the room. Here is a hot mess of slobbery, drool on pillow, hair in sweaty, tangled knots, yummy, I’d fuck me…with a hose. Will someone pour a bucket of water on me? C’mon, man! You see it in the movies all the time. Where’s a prankster when you need one? 1…2…3…wake the fuck up you blubbering fuckwit. Fuckwit, that’s my brain talking back. It’s stuck in my sweat lodge skull and wants to skull fuck its way out. I recommend the earholes. Less slimy than the nostrils, but then again, brain, slimefest. Yeah, this is some kind of weird, aware dream. That’s me right here. That’s me in there. The nerve endings are working, but the motor skills are disabled. C’mon. Climb out, rung by rung. You can do it, snort, cough, ungodly, indecipherable noise, yeah, yeah, yeah! I’m out! Fuck. That was exhausting. Back to bed.

– Heatstroke Rabbit

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