Of Merdia 42

42.        A commonplace among Merdians is that their goddess is ascendant during waking hours, but sleeps alongside our sleeping.  I have found this not to be true.  Not only am I occasionally blessed with a serendipitous pearl when night raises high and I cruise that other land, a surprise pearl that imitates the dawn, not only do I have the knowledge that such occurrences can only increase as I advance in years and wisdom, but I often find that Merdia joins me in the shadow kingdom.  I dream of course, like others, of impossible copulations and labyrinths made of cheese.  I dream of the War of Ants and Sunflowers, of cabals of microscopic dogs.  Of demonic three-headed nuns and girly presidents.  But not just this.  When night's buttocks hang low and the sewers of Hell back up to meet them, I see headless scats on headless beasts with merde for eyes, merde-eyes floating in place of heads.  Scat rivers overflow and drink our cities dry.  I am a scat on the pinnacle of ruin, composing commandments for a legion of Spanish rats.  Diappo scats are served.  Scat lattes, shakes.  Scat cordon bleu.  Napoleon Scataparte approaches; we converse easily in Scatese.  He displays a scatograph to scry the catastrophes of man.  I reveal a door in my buttocks.  It opens, we descend.  A surging liquid sea of chunky scats rages to the tune of Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da, and in the middle my mother sunbathes naked on a float.  "Mudder, Mōdor," I cry.  But the sea consumes me and I wake.  I know then that Morpheus and Merdia are lovers.