Polaroid dream

Their feckless razors cut mean red slits through the night. We sleep so restlessly, tossing and turning as the door knocks time and time again.  Somewhere a disconnected telephone rings and we pick up the receiver to hear the voice of the late General George Armstrong call.  He chants the number 6 …

… and the nightmare 

pads

into

the

room

dressed

in

the

thin-veined

moebius loop

of

mr

wolf

Lycanthrope scratchings, rabid at the door with the voice of General George repeating his chant in time to the background.  Some sweet smelling flowers of romance to lay his grave by ...

number 6

number 6

...