Here is something I wrote for my Personal Narrative class. It’s a “dream narrative” written in stanzas.

He sits, just as he’s always done,
At the foot of my bed, in his white suit—
White jacket, white pants, white shirt, white shoes—
I’m almost sure his underwear is also white,
But I never see it.
In his arms, he holds a guitar and he is strumming
I strain to hear what it is
I’m almost sure it’s Leila.

Black hair… lots of it… on his head,
Though he is clean-shaven
Long, flowing raven locks.
Past his shoulders and one half of his face is veiled
By it like the El Mariachi in Desperado right before
He busted out his Tommy gun and started killing people.
Green eyes burning in their sockets like emeralds
Gone nuclear… blazing, dare I call them orbs?
And I’m thinking I write like a romance novelist
Even in my sleep.

Cheekbones that can slice onions, a jaw that
Can crush walnuts… shoulders like a linebacker’s
I know who he is—Damien… I think I named him
Damien, even though his initial name was Sebastian—but
I changed it because I couldn’t, in good conscience, name
A soul-sucking incubus after my seven year old nephew.
Or the lobster from the Little Mermaid
So he’s Damien from the Omen—why is a vaguely demonic
Creature always named Damien?

I created him—that is, he exists in a world I created,
And for a moment, I am afraid because according to mythology
An incubus only visits the slumber of those who are already
Damned and destined to go the very, very hot place where
Your soul is tortured daily for all eternity. I am not looking
Forward to having pineapples shoved up my asshole by Hitler.

The white lace curtains—what the fuck, I don’t have white
Lace curtains! Blowing in the wind in slo-mo… holy crap,
Am I in a Janet Jackson video?
There is a distinct smell of patchouli incense
And I’m wondering if I got contact high again
From my pot-smoking neighbors.
I tell myself that if I start hearing Love Will Never
Do Without You, I’m going to start screaming.

The Incubus sits at the foot of my bed
As he had for the past few nights, strumming on
His guitar and I begin to wonder if I created him
Or he existed before I wrote him or some kind of
Post Modern Meta Bullshit like that.

If he is real, then he is here to collect my soul
But as I recall an Incubus can only suck out
Your soul in the throes of a soul-shattering orgasm,
Yours not His—can the Incubi have orgasm?

I was lying in bed on my back, but now
I find myself propped up on my elbows, on my stomach
Watching him strum on his guitar
And I’m thinking
What the fuck kind of 13 year old girl fantasy is this?
Dude looks like an amalgamation of Christian Bale, Antonio
Banderas (before he got his soul sucked by the succubus
known as Melanie Griffith), and Trent Reznor.

He is Damien, isn’t he? I made him up—must have dredged
Him up from my prepubescent masturbatory yearnings of Laurie
From Little Women dumping that bitch Amy March and asking
Me to run away with him on his horse and spiriting me to his
Castle where we can spend the rest of our lives buying diamonds
And stallions and shit like that.

And I’m looking at him and I’m thinking I’m
Totally okay with him wanting to suck my soul
And all if he gave me a soul-shattering orgasm first
I bet he’s the kind of guy who pays attention to everything
Like toes… oh man, toes. I’m like Quentin Tarantino when
It comes to feet. I’m not all obsessed with Uma Thurman’s feet
Or anything, but I do like it when people give me foot rubs.
I dated a guy who was all about toes. Man, he was a freak.

Let’s go, Damien… let’s dance.
Oh won’t you please, for the love of all that is holy,
Put down that goddamn guitar?

This entry was posted on Tuesday, May 8th, 2007 at 8:32 am and is filed under Writing. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.