Dream #77: The Crawling Resurrection

Dream #77: The Crawling Resurrection

I walked through the Garden of Resin, where every tree bore fruit shaped like screaming mouths. Their tongues recited scripture, but only the corrupted verses, the ones edited by smiling demons in cassocks.

I was searching for the resurrection.

Not the resurrection, but mine. They say it matters. That it redeems. But in the dream, I was digging it out of my own chest like a tumor made of light.

I passed the Altar of Flies, which buzzed the Book of Jessor into my ears:

“And He who swallows His reflection shall vomit truth, yet none shall believe it, for mirrors lie with greater conviction than prophets.”

Was Christ the Antichrist? Or was the church simply afraid that resurrection doesn’t save, it exposes.

And what good is rising again If your bones remember who buried you?

I climbed the Temple of Splinters, each step a jagged echo of betrayal. At the top sat the Christ-Jessor hybrid, half bleeding shepherd, half laughing corpse.

He offered me a drink. It was liquid ambition, distilled judgment, cold forgiveness.

He said:

“We gave you resurrection like a bad joke wrapped in ritual. You wanted joy? We gave you applause. You wanted freedom? We gave you doctrine. You wanted peace? We gave you Hell and told you it was holy.”

Then he ate his own gospel and turned into a thunderstorm.

Down below, in the Valley of Malformed Saints, I met a woman with twelve eyes who said:

“Christians teach us to hate what pulses. What moans. What burns. They call desire corruption and then feed it famine. But the Book of Jessor tells another tale: That God cursed order and blessed contradiction.”

She kissed my forehead, and I saw Jesus hanging from a cross made of television wires, preaching to a congregation of mannequins with bleeding hands.

Billy Fragment 13: Resurrection Dream Logic

Last night, I saw the body of Christ floating down a gutter, not crucified, just forgotten. His eyes were wine. His skin, static. And I said, “Why didn’t you rise?”

He whispered, “I did. You blinked.”

Then the sky peeled open like wet paper and out crawled the Book of Jessor, ink bleeding down my arms like psalms made of tar.

I wrote my gospel backwards and it sounded like screaming. They called me antichrist. They called me prophet. They called me Billy and none of them knew what it meant.

Resurrection isn’t hope. It’s haunting.