Point it into my skin and run it across granite counter-tops dense with layers of intricate thoughts.
Slice your tongue on appetite and drop the influence of your lover into the perfumed atmospheres of animus.
Press the supple horizon constructed of saltpeter with its softening fields and breaking waves.
A finger tells me this- a bruised finger dipped in moss, concealed in trees and rubbing eyes-
The city is a concrete cathedral adhered by iron nails, rods of fear and unfamiliar faces; a colossal fist hangs over the soundless clumps of worshipers, seeding them with deceptive ease.
I carry the finger in my mouth, and it trickles heavy sound into my stomach; I hold it in my eye, and it does much the same.
A "stream of consciousness" piece.
I've been reading a lot about the surrealists and I've come to find that I enjoy their form of creative expression.
I've become more comfortable with letting my subconscious take over and write.
— The End —