Automatic Writing

If there is anyone there would they kindly make themselves known. No peeking. Put down the pasteboard mask. Be forthcoming. The floorboards creak and I see footprints forming in the the flour I cunningly scattered earlier. This is a strange old house. the rusty pipes rattle even when the bluebirds sing. I wish I had rainbows but at this time of life that can hardly be expected. Maybe the captain will show up soon. I've missed him; lets be honest about this. He was never my lover but his thin rapier makes me squeal. The river runs slowly through its grey banks of piled up mud- slickly shining in the arc lights of the motorway.

More Of The Same

If there were anything here but the phonebook I would eat it, but the grey dawn is rising over Katmandu and all the little Buddhas are singing- peep, peep, peep, peeep. I like them. they are so fat and frolicsome. See them in the afternoon- how they dance and play. The latest installment of my favourite soap is late in coming. I haven't ever watched it before. Perhaps the murderer will be apprehended. I would like to see them chase him as in that film of Kurosawa's through fields of flowers. that is life, isn't it? How sweet and ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssstreamlined it all is. And the schoolgirls bat the shuttlecock to one another with high looping screams.