Automaton

Guided by intuition, no meaning left, I declare my automatism to be perfect. Meandering streams of thought hope to be led by the force. May it be with you. It sometimes is with me. Rarely, but then steadily it declares to be there for me, to guide my fingers, whenever I need them, to write or to touch your body. My poetry is lost in oceans of dark velvet foam. My style or grace is the absence of speed or at least it is defined by it. And finally I let my wrist speak to me. This is what it is saying: