Automatic #256

I am in the basement with Dr. Watson building a Frankenstein. We were sent instruction via the mail and met here on this day to begin the great project of our lives. Neither of us knows how it will come out, or what will be done with the endless piles of corpses that arrived soon after. Perhaps we are to build and army, but no the instructions said clearly one Frankenstein. It is days like this where I like to get out of the house stretch my legs and a take a nice walk among the evening sounds. But Watson will have nothing of it. He insists that we investigate each possible avenue, each possible computation. I am tired. I want to lie down and take a nap among the sycamore trees that seem to be sprouting up everywhere now. Here it is. I will lie down among the green grasses and rest my eyes. I will not think of Frankensteins. I will not think of this.

automatic #217

It’s times like this when the wild-life, the unnameable wildlife, creeps down into the valley and waits in the weeds like some unexpected flower. An eye twitching in the tall grass. Everything on fire. The gates to the city barred shut, only they forget to let us all in. in the center of the city the smoke rises from the lone chimney, the last bit of this place left standing. Cats creep high backed and cackled, flashing green eyes through the smoke, through the fog, we don’t which is which. There is a sound of no sound in your ears. perhaps something in you is trying to escape, or perhaps not, you lack the ability to take measure. Instead you are measured out inch by inch one bleating point after another. A stone knows your name, yet you can’t coax it into revealing it to you. Instead you slip on your shoes, your rotten and beaten shoes and march into the city.