Automatic Writings


Psychological rebellion

Paralyzed. Take me to cookie cutter island. Can’t hear the stark reality of it all. Afraid, aware, too awake? Something wrong? Thinking this is wrong is the problem? I don’t know

Nice cubed squares. Smutty ink. Preposterous mind fucks. What does it all mean?

Hapless and hopeless. Twisted flotation. The marble rides the ramp. Orange and opulent.

I want to show you something rather than teach. I want to point at the thing so you know. I will point at death and ask you what is there to learn. Bloody mary. The feeble run wild. The tigress pounces at the air.

Despair worn like a shallow tray visor. Dress it up like a smug fall. The cretins are coming, and they know I can’t look up.

Missing away from this, lies a lightly salted realm, empty and crumbling dry. Snow angels left themselves here, until they too died.

The aroma is ever-changing, inconsistent exposure, my minerals are unknown.

There is only one way to explain, and that is by dashing in the darkness, skipping over uprooted earth, into the trees. Lost but found. I don’t want to play this game anymore.

My tongue is torpid and my eyes are low, watching intently upon something I know nothing about. A mad man runs this space and he isn’t me, for heaven’s sake. I carry the dignity that doesn’t exist, he carries nothing, shows up with nothing, arriving the same way he’ll leave.

My spirit marches on in a stop-and-go fashion, with nothing for context — to size it up. This is the man that has always been. The one that is rumored to exist, and always does, as he makes it known. My brothers and ancestors, are perhaps the same. If you know what I know then you know about barreling yourself towards a target that may or may not exist. And when the bowling ball hits the pins the lane is finally seen.

A singular initiative, the highest calling, the only? Where else to find the stuff of seasons, biblical and all? You mustn’t hold me accountable, for this I have no end, just a place where nothing becomes something, like a morning breath. My excellence is here, and won’t you see to him here? The sin is never sinning, you sick bastards. Light of breath and red of face, hands thrown ahead, for the glass wall. I wonder what erupts from an empty field.