when you lived in a house on Primrose Lane

it happened one night you were drinking chartreuse

and slept a sleep so sound and so deep

you dreamed of a poem 

a beautiful poem that longed to be read

but knowing full well there were spies all around

foreign agents and fellow travelers 

and knowing what lay in the hearts of third men 

a poem you kept was a poem you kept hidden  

pressed like powder in jeweled compacts

or shaped into bricks and taped to your chest

you smuggled it out of your dream like hashish 

a red light was glowing a whistle was blowing

the train leaving Istanbul seconds away 

suddenly men were shouting in Turkish

they pointed their pistols

you dropped to your knees 

then everything changed as it will in a dream

you sat in a kitchen 

tearing the crust from slices of bread

I've been having a lot of nightmares lately. Not just the waking nightmare of watching the conspiracy theorists slowing taking over the public political discourse, but actual nightmare dreams. The worst involved me rescuing Tessie, who'd been kidnapped and taken to New York City's Chinatown with a ridiculous and scary Big Trouble in Little China plot. Other events included me being sexually assaulted and having to to kill one of my torturers (a scene reminiscent of

A LieQuest 2024: A Lie Quest of Mythologically Discordian Proportions branded infomercial.
Please do not change channels.

Posted this Pungenday, the 35th day of Discord in the YOLD 3190
Principia Discordia
00042 & 00063

"Whatever your standards of proof are, they aren't relevant to me. Even my standards of proof aren't relevant to my blind faith, proof is