I wouldn't be asleep for quids.

In the dream I'm smoking cigarettes with Michel Onfray and I'm pissed off he's here because I wanted to talk to him before his fluff piece feature in the lesser of two evil weekend time wasters.

Fuck you, I say, you're only in my subconscious now because it's convenient for you!

A girl walks passed. I laugh at the syntax. The universe is round.

That may be so, I can get his French accent right in my sleep but you should hear me slay it when I'm awake. But I am 'ere now, so let's talk.

I smoke. He smokes. Mutated flying fish dance on the water beside us, holding hands and spinning circles. It's a cobble-stone street and I can see Inspector Cliche in his beige hat reading the New York Times on the other side of the cafe.

Onfray laughs as an ambulance screams past.

He says, It took off like a homosexual comedian! Weeeooooo!

Don't quote that cunt at me, I say, his material kills but his prose is conceited. Still, I do love that fucking line.

I lean forward and I'm ready to talk when all of a sudden I wake up and it's dark and cold and the rain is knocking on my back door, let me in, let me in, so I get up in time to see the back of the night as it disappears, the fog its spurned lover, the rain the notes of their song, the rising sun the caring parent, come to console the frozen earth.

Strange Fruit

Feel that? The trip tickling tantalisingly tempting taste and traces of a dying summer. Arousing in its death throes, libidinously fresh and crisp in its ardent desire to travel around the globe and leave us breathless with sleep and ready to curl into flannel sheets - deceptively seductive as they are - as outside the reign of frost begins. And today...the sun is but the warmth of a lover after they have left the bed, a fragrant indentation and companion to the doe eyed loner left behind. Clarity is so fucking sexy, you can smell it on days like today. Days where the air dances electricity on your goose-fleshed arms and every hair stands to attention, marshalling the senses to a near orgasmic readiness. Everyone's alive, everyone's working, everyone's a busy beaver, and damn it feels good to be an animal, smelling, foretelling, hunting and killing. Days under a cold bright sun, nights a mystery behind closed doors, in front of a fire, with sated hearts and bellies and further down still. And if your toes could talk, they'd say...hehe, come lay by the fire, the fire with me.

********

And in perfect synchronicity, my Boss informs us all, that he has learned the Art of ejaculating up his own spine. Initially I picture him doing an "over the shoulder" and catching it on his back like those childhood wooden toys with the ball and string. Or perhaps he bends it down and around in some sort of gymnastic Holmes-esque ritual...but no. It's Tantric..and the office is nervously awaiting his offer to workshop us all.