The Faux Pas Press #127
Dictateur Sanguinaire
By Jason Fresh
08 January 2012
Interestingly enough, the New Hampshire debates smelled of ball sweat. My mother can’t stop sending me delightful little text messages – not about the debates or Ron but about the Worth of a Soul and shit. I don’t know whether the world is ending or just slowing down a bit. Not too interested in the world around me as I can perceive it. More interested in how it might look traced in neon lights – not draped in holiday cheer spiked with a shot of Jim Beam. I dreamt last night, dreamt that I was being wrestled by a few men who were more able than I. I wrestled them as well as I could but they bested me. When they were done, I looked in a large mirror they were calling Bastille. My reflection gradually peeled like stucco finish on a house in an overpriced housing development in every American suburb. When all the faux finish peeled my reflection was startling. The new face? Maximilien François Marie Isidore de Robespierre. It is a good thing that the only dreams coming true are the ones that I charge with incantation, blood ritual, and dark lore. It wouldn’t suit me. Dictateur sanguinaire!
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