The pottery people fell
under the weight of their wares,
caved in,
a fiasco,
into the matrix of linen-like fabrics
of fiber-optic transmissions
that carry the emotions
and undo the knots in the hearts
of the doomed, like the cellulose pillow people
inside my dream.
The pottery people
now speak a Vulgar Latin,
and barbarically regressed into military operations
while collecting botanical specimens
in old French villages.
They are now using the specimens as legal tender
convertible to gold and silver.
The pottery people have been tested in the field
and have failed in trust, confidence, and responsibility;
they will be fed to the hounds of hell.
I follow them in this surreal dream-
they now battle geological formations
in a dark Feudal Lord's fiefdom
in regions of space
that border on the gravitational
and electromagnetic
which require authorization and a body-search to enter,
and are difficult to maneuver through.
I try moving in a capricious manner
with earthenwares fashioned
with the hand-cavities
of the bygone pottery people.
The dream continues.
An insignificant childhood lie now resurfaces,
fabricated of woodchips and other linguistic errors
and translated into a flaming liquor that is now
flambéing in 16th-century French Gothic architecture
in a city of gas and fire,
suspended in the brilliant intensity
of highly elaborate vertical bolts of lightening.
This was brought on by my vivid slumbering image
of the pottery people’s
passion for the extinct.
A tragic, violent burst
of scintillating crystals
imitating heartbeats
fell on the world capitals
and flashed in a rapid succession
in shimmers that reflected obliquely
in the glances of the pottery people
whose hands grope for me out of the quagmire.
They are now warmly dressed in woven translucent candle beams
in a faint and fleeting light
while drying codfish on the east coast
of a new continent
now inhabited by their descendents,
the little pottery people.
Like another species
bred for farm labor on a temporary basis
in a mountainous tableland,
and having a dependence on plant life
and parasites that inflame the nerves,
the pottery people's children now wield their heavy blades
and carry their pennants and standards into new battles
with boisterous bursts of laughter
and insolent talk;
being imitated in the years that followed
with devotion and enthusiasm
by followers
as they went about their fading endeavors.
The ambassador of the new pottery people
charmed and beguiled my sleeping audience
by pretending to be imbued with grace
and charged with antimatter,
but a French neurologist entered the quasi-scene
and knew, through research,
that there was no evidence of this.
He secretly wore the truth hidden on his bracelet,
which he gave me.
I read the verse and spoke the incantation
and once again exposed the intrigues
of the pottery people.
Now they are a distant memory,
childishly imitated
and saturated with processed celebrity
in breezy tropical settings
with charged particles and drink umbrellas
that periodically rush forward in violent attacks
upon the pottery people's divinely inspired powers,
who, in their rapid rise,
succumbed to decompression sickness
and collapsed upon the earth
like gentle blankets of snow.
I awoke, brushed off the snow,
and returned to the dream,
and there, naked before me,
were the pottery people.
Adding your comment:
I told you that I love reading poems about dreams and you didn't fail to please me with this write! I love that fresh idea of a pottery civilization..so many ideas just bursted into my mind as I read on and felt like a witness of the dream myself. This is beautiful and enchanting as any amazing dream should be 
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