Automatic Writing #3

Why then six sick sink hole sized faces in the night do we the undersigned under sighs of silent night tears- tear apart this wretched soulless soul until tills ring out in triumphant terror the dawning of a dead age of aged lime- wire cauterising the silenced humanity that falls out face-first into the scorched black earth. 

Did we lose sleep seeping people seem to forget that the kindness kind of shoulder to shout from does not equate to vibrant violence with dogged daydreamed dollars? Sort the Ferris metals until the course runs free from the kind of sky that we no longer see. We don’t really care when the stares of the ruins don’t reach the top anymore

The heaven’s unobtainable journey is the one where the train leaves the station in the middle of the night and never leaves the platform. With ruined woodland palaces of rhinestones find stones in our shoes and hobble on the cobbles until we hop off the last stop and drown our sorrows in the muddy waters of the end. 

If we don’t pick up stick up for the things that were not lies down the track where will we be? There are no furniture removal vans that can take you to the edge of the cliff where we all watch the view and play Uno with the kind king of the kindred dreaded dead end don. Stand up landed fallen on the tide of the dry and baron dress up dessert. Workwear shall care where we wore the tartan. Spinal shine through the coarse and rosy course. Ever on.


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3 Comments Add yours

  1. Some interesting imagery here, my friend. You certainly are a talented wordsmith! 👍🖤

    Liked by 1 person

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