My grandfather was there
in his daze of old age,
my grandmother too
making a posthumous appearance,
both my brothers
(interesting considering I only have one brother,
but I suppose in dreams
cloning humans is legal.
The only way I can tell these two apart
is one wears green, the other red),
and my skinhead friend Tristan
with a mohawk reborn
accompanies me.

He begins to speak of Injuns
which disturbs me
being as I'm such a pinko hippie and all,
but my grandparents seem to be more disturbed
by the mohawk tearing through their Calvinist values
and setting ablaze traditionalism
while mowing down their spaghetti and meatballs.

My grandfather
leaves his daze
in order to demand the table be cleared
and that I have a chat with Tristan
while desert is prepared
so as to straighten him out a little.

So I tell Tristan
that I'm really fuckin' disappointed in him, man
and he strolls off to the garage
and climbs atop the roof
where the brother in red is waiting.
Tristan picks up his body, limply
and meeting no resistance,
throws him to the ground
like a doll with a petty thud,
and were it not for the garage and dream sequence
blocking the field of vision
I would see a fresh corpse.

Tristan descends from the roof,
and approaches the brother in green
and lifts him above his head in piledriver position,
and just before he sends the head of this veritable mannequin
crashing into a discarded cinderblock
I hear my mother scream an accusation,
she had warned me about Tristan being too radical for my own or his own good

Then I notice in a glimpse
the green shirt my brother is wearing
is mine, the bitch.