Total Body Transplant
Anyway, I want to tell you about this dream I had last night in which I'd had a total body transplant (T.B.T). That means I had my own head, but someone else's body, and a red line around my neck when I looked in the mirror - where they'd made the cut. I think I'd done it as a favour to a friend, and had been paid.
A favour?!
I do too much for friends, sometimes. And isn't there a whiff of prostitution about all this? But I remember the nice strangeness of having a new body.
And then I was in a public toilet with my dick out at a urinal and an attractive woman with a couple of small children walked in. The woman stopped and looked at my dick and smiled admiringly.
But, of course, it wasn't my dick!
Or was it?
I got up this morning and smelt Goose Fair on the breeze... diesel, hot dogs, sputtering onions, and remembered the euphoria of smelling that when I was six years old. The ginseng must have kicked in because then R and I were at it like Olympiads. Then I came to the computer and touched up (goosed?) my poem about David Beckham, stroked it into shape, so I thought I'd stick it here for you to read:
On Seeing Sam Taylor Wood’s One-Hour Seven-Minute Video Of David Beckham Sleeping
Seems I gotta hush and blush and kneel beforethis icon. Yeah right! I’m no kowtow-ist,what’s more this ain’t no saint just Beckham fastasleep – at peace – although I got my eye… surehe’s faking it. But then he licks his lips,a kiddywink gone beddy-byes, so lamb-like my blood Mexican waves. Penalty! AmI really such a mug to touch his lips?Did I say ‘lips’ again? I dribble eyesinto his elbow’s crook, his moist sfumato,bathe bathe What the…? This vid’s acid burns too soonmy human strip. Again become baboon.Wolf? No. Baboon. My Easter Island nose,my reeking fangs, my anus beef tomato.
