Limmericks for a Dream

I’ve dreamed of cosmic pipe bombs
and several high school proms.
Never before have I raced hard
for a lamp-cake tub of lard.
I am an angry mob.

I dreamed I was a capo
for my guitar, I had to go
all the way to the 8th fret,
hoping the hand playing wouldn’t forget,
hoping he had some skills to show.

One time my friend dreamed I was a box
and he took me everywhere, he called me Fox.
I was happy, he was happy
until he dumped me into this super sappy
pond of sweaty socks.

Some of my mind is missing
from the constant kissing
of the wall I love so much.
But I won’t ever use a crutch,
because I dreamed mine was pissing.

Dante’s Inferno would be one crazy dream.
I wish the world was all that it seems
but I know that would be lame
because then there’d be no game.
I dreamed I was made of whip cream.

Dawns of simple thoughts dusk the harder ones.
That means simplicity comes after harder runs.
Simple dreams are like the tenor sax;
harder ones are like the telephone fax.
But neither is good for hotdog buns.

My clocks are hanging over a tree
due to them having so little time for free.
If I was a monkey, my dreams would consist of
bananas, bugs, social time, and some monkey love.
My dreams are always—sometimes—what they seem to be.

If chess were a universal brane
I would toss out my pawns for the game
because they are useless.
I’d only use the useful; I guess
that’s why they’re useful to the cosmic plane.