Automatic poetry texts for the Electrography of a dream: R.E.M
 

"The Night's Deepest Hour" by Erik Kirton

 

The fields, once flourishing,

dissolve within the incoherence of recollection.

A dream,

a withering reminder,

at once forgotten,

to whom, all was but a fleeting memory.

 

Our voice resounds the cadence of desire,

as we walk amidst the orchids,

on autumn's golden leaves.

Still our breath,

while that which was,

dissolves beneath a veil of hidden tomorrows.

 

Challenge the accord,

the vice,

and the enlightenment,

of passions unknown - 

even to our waking selves -

and call forth the whispers

of our night's deepest hour.

 

 

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 Untitled - Automatic flow by Maya

 

"Write, eyes wide opened on the passive state which collects the ruins of a sight on the ensemble. Find in the slaughter a way to always remain lucid.  

This is how the spirit dictates its twilight within boredom. Speak still to the third person of the other place, which extends under the stabbing skin.

The palpitations of the ink on the page cover the gaping pores of the lie. 

 

The dream spreads under the ice as the reflection of nothingness thrown on a shadow.

 

Extend sprawled out over the words which flow back of their lascivious cave. Disturbed by the increasing number, decimating the seconds remaining, counting sheeps.

 

Leave no trace of the imprint, sink under flesh cut by small scissors.  Find out exactly, without even looking for the hidden symbols. Decipher the viscera’s language which tells everything; there; accidentally. As cloudbursts passing by and leaving wet spots on sheets.

 

Your memories fade at the surface of today. Concentrated on nothing, a hand is playing with a puppet. Layer after layer masks fall without leaving a trace. Why not let all of this stay at the bottom where it’s bearable ? Instead of letting it float like a rotten tree?

 

I am her and myself. I is not her. Because she doesn’t really exist and nor do I.

She’s in search of a sight, not necessarily looking for connivance.

I, looking over the scene, is detached, disembodied. It is neither shadow or light. Something more like a flicker. Balancing in between, as always and never. But that heart, beating so hard that it could burst, reminds us that always and never are neither that close, neither that far. Following the heart that runs in between the legs.

 

I was standing into that room flickering with light ; the candles shadows were dancing on the walls that started to melt.  They were beating like time, distorted behind a cloudburst.. I was looking at you but you didn’t want to see me. A somehow painful feeling of déjà vu.

 

Then, she appeared, a little breath among the trees. Light as a soft wind in the leaves. The tree was beating with your heart. You, absorbed in it. The fusion of some secret. Recurrent. Her presence, the sun on your face, and the whole universe spinning.

 

As everything blurred

her shadow escaping

further away into sub-consciousness

I raised my hand and as I reached her

she faded away.

 

Walking into disorientation

the further my steps took me

the closer she came

I started running

she was hanging in front of me

like the shadow of a candle light

ethereal, real, unreachable

 

I listened to the rhythm of her shade

and i hold my breath

hold it. the air flickered. Light particles flew through me.

the violent caress of motion

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