Here in the dark so many precious things
Of colour glorious and effect so rare?
--Keats
I was reading John Keats, and trying not to fall into a deeper dream, which could only entail steep fits of soporific sleep. Outside were arrayed many 4-foot-high snow drifts, with a sub-zero wind-chill that made it quite impossible to simply pick up and go.
On ESPN 2, the bisexual pool-shooting divas with hips like drawn blades were running the colorful balls across an immaculate table, their beautiful bisexual asses draped over the creamy felt that must have felt and smelled so powdery and clean, and was about halfway between teal and ultramarine. I could hear the little pool balls, as they dropped home --
click...click...click...
Back outside, dressed in Gothic rags, John Keats was freezing to death, hip-deep in the frozen alfalfa copse swamped with snow drifts. I fired up my 400 Horsepower Husqvarna Valley Cat, and it made a throaty moan as I swooped low to pick up the stricken Keats -- light as a bundle of dahlias, his face the color of fresh snow.
When we got back to the toasty-warm billiards emporium, the bisexual lady shooters quickly stripped shivering Keats down, tugging his sopping pantaloons around his ankles. I imagined the most experienced shooter taking the swelling, steaming manhood of Keats, pumping that stick with her sweet, skilled fist. I imagined it, and then it was so. And whether confined to my own mind, or a world of her design, this coal-black, blade-hipped pool shooting diva wasn't about to let her precious thing go.
At that instant I was experiencing a series of electromagnetic orgasms, bent over the steaming corner pocket with a bad-blasting rocket between my rubbery legs that simply wanted to plunder bubbly magma from the very core of the earth. From the other side of the room, where all the cameras and sisters had steered him, I could hear Keats hacking and shrieking. I got my fears, though an end was now near, Keats kept coming, and coming back to life.
Did you hear? The poet was coming back to life...
Meanwhile, yet another nasty journeyman pool-playing diva was whispering the same thing, over and over and over -- in my fevered ear:
It's all ye need to know...
The dream is saying my time was up, but I never want to let the precious thing go.
