Joseph Buckley: The Devil’s Laundry
The Devil’s Laundry
The devil had been collecting my dreams all my life. It spun them on a wheel, into a grim coat. This coat was not bright. This coat was not pretty. Faces emerged in places, but they were stretched out so far you had to squint — almost close — your eyes to see them. The brown-purple-red cloth was perpetually damp — always dripping dark liquids wherever the devil went. Between the stitching was embedded small chips of bone. It couldn’t have been very comfortable to wear.
I’ve never seen my dreams, independent of the devil’s grotesque coat. The devil told me they feel like television. I watch television — and movies too — and even the places on the internet with videos. There is so much to see.
I have never seen myself.
When the dream-coat needs washing, the devil brings it to the city’s sewer-drain. The devil lets it soak under the gushing sludge and then slaps the tormented fabric against the cement pipe and rubs the filth into the coat’s fibers. I watch the devil do this. I watch everything it does. It feels like television. I watch the devil’s eyes stare into the depths of the fabric like a disappointed father. I watch the devil leave my dream-coat under the drain.
Joseph Buckley lives and writes in New Orleans, LA. His work is featured in December, Fogged Clarity, IDK, and elsewhere.
