Bared. Fragment of pure automatic writing.(unedited) Braevallich Cottage, Scotland. 1996.

Total absolution.

Flimsy in timeless, gruesome heat.

Auburn textured tunes of other times.

Marching on weary calloused feet.

Crawling now on hands and knees.

Please, please, please, please.

A great swan, like a star, flies into a blackened gap, like a void.

A glowing, auric asteroid and screaming the song,

Willowed fancy bent her neck with grace.

Flow into the pen-song, sing if you like, sing along.

Allow the voices to creep up beside you

Muscle sing and sinew.

Breathe the universe and smile.

Sit a while.

It is a privelidge, to many misunderstood,

That to burble like a stream unconscious can be good.

Our downfall lay in our endless control.

Towelling. Dry them all away.

Put on your clothes and pack away our bare defensless nudity.

Not good to see where we are from.

Cover it up-hide it away.

My God what would the neighbours say.

Not good to examine the pore and sweat

A living body is more than that.

We should live only for soul and hide away.

The body that carries us day after day.

Let it be tangled with lust and sin.

After all it’s only a bag we keep our egos in.

But lust and sin, lust and sin, the pinnacle point of our marketing.

Selling the sack that we keep our souls in.

Moulding and crafting, perfection the key.

Only the perfect retain free nudity.

For the soul must show shame for its wrinkles and bulges

Cry in its prison and hide from the vultures.

Skin and love.

Comfort and sweaty love-making begin.

Nudity a barefaced crime.

Imperfection in mirror eyes

A sin.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s