Lucy in / the dream with / the pink Strandberg I wanted

She had gothic
pixie
vibes, pink
hair and heavy eye-
shadow.

Rocking it down
inside the flesh cavern
like we were shrunken
cheering on a pink tongue
and watching the uvula
swing as a disco ball
before the throat-chasm and
above the oaken stage.

I do not remember the song(s)
I do not remember leaving
but as dreams do
my perspective switches beyond
this flesh wall to another, inside
something harkening more
of an oesophagus where I claim
ownership of the palm-size mud
motel—though I am no american
that is what it is, a
motel—forging rooms at dirt-value
payment and unclogging doorways
to shrink down once more
and slip through the office door.

I do not remember seeing the interior(s)
I do not remember leaving
but as dreams do
my perspective switches back
inside the flesh cavern
where all are gone except
my friend Lucy holding on
to the gothic-pixie-vibes-pink-hair-and-heavy-eye-
shadow lady-
lead-singer-lead-guitarist’s baby-
pink Strandberg, seven-
stringed-and-stickered. 

She needs it
for stage-appearance
I need it
for letting loose
dark undertones
of the earth’s core shaking
in my melody’s voice
in my Hammett-wrists and
body convulsing to WAAAH 

I do not remember who took it
I do not remember leaving
but as waking does
neither of us gripped it
in our palms once we woke.