Automatic Writing

[poliphilo]

Today I will get out and walk the walk and dislike the first thing I see as I pass through the door. There will be dandelions growing up through the asphalt and the little dogs will sniff and pass on. It is Wednesday in heaven and the free-falling flyers of the Euonymous club are making pinwheels in the air. Blue smoke trails from the heels of the biplanes. The zeppelins rove down the mountain valleys.

And I am young and together and I have a rose in the band of my hat. This is a good day. A very good day. Nothing will stop me from popping into the greengrocers and making a withdrawal. I will point my six gun and demand my money. Ha. You didn't expect that did you?

A strange morning, but not so strange as the sight of the marchers on the high street. There are elephants following the band. Fire eaters and fire walkers and strong men in leopard skin coats. the crowds cheer and the little children wave flags and rattles. Someday there will be a new Jerusalem. It will have pinnacles that break the clouds all scaly with golden tiles and tiles of lapis laxuli.

I have never understood the Queen. Why does she do it? Why do her hands wave like that, all white as lilies, all smooth as goldfish in a pool? Never have I seen so strange a thing as the coal-black members of the palace guard. They carry halbards and the halbards have ribbons tied beneath the iron-steel of the broad headed blades. They dance. They dance on the palace green and the crows and the ravens scatter and fly up and sit on the turrets of the bloody tower and make corvine conversation.

It is Wednesday still. Wednesday in heaven. Tall streams fall from the mountains. The smoke arises and goes. Nothing remains. The meadows are swept clean. The little starry daisies look at the great eye of the sun. Emerald fields and emerald eyes in the heads of the copper-skinned women of the vales.

Comments

[ibid.livejournal.com]

Frech wings are coming on the pink ground dragos with their wngs of night andf their suits of grey silk on the apples of the daylight musings.

[poliphilo.livejournal.com]

And this morning there are no raindrops of pearl or opal but a fresh sheath of unbeaten sunlight that falls across the landscape in waves of wheat.

[ibid.livejournal.com]

Without the cold nightingale to sing me to the sea how till I know where the lapwings so with the trees outside?

[poliphilo.livejournal.com]

You will know because the lapwings will tell you themselves. They will send postcards from beyond the veil. No-one will hear the glad tidings but you. And you will be declared a prophet and a truth singer and the wings of the evening will crown your head with laurels.