Several days ago, I asked an interesting new acquaintance if he would care to try a literary experiment. He was game, so I asked him to provide several key words or images to focus on while composing. I get so much random psychic–usually precog–material that I thought to see if it could be put to some sort of use.
The piece below is the result. He says I got hits, that basically the whole thing is hits. He also tells me it got a bit amorous, but look at the key phrases he came up with:
Musk—False teeth—Secret path—Rabbit foot
29 April 2018
Hare Across Your Path
The Moon’s just risen overhead; the path is lined with shining shells;
you’re walking with a solemn will toward the place of untold spells,
selecting for the best amongst them all, the fragrant tuft of hair
you last saw trapped by sweet spring buds upon the branch that blooms more fair
for your appeal to secret understanding as you stand in shade.
For love of god, your heart attempted what it never finally made—
the music of the ruined place where shining shells upon a beach
gleamed all too brightly, till you felt yourself go under, out of reach
of why the quiet thrumming came persistently, like rapid feet.
There’s the shadow swift as air about to storm—will it repeat
the words you heard on first arising out of dream and into deep
and ever more intense communion with the lore of former sleep,
by which you waken in your dream with something wet clutched in your hand?
It’s a bloody rabbit’s foot. That’s crossed your path. You understand
the meanings of the scattered constellations laid along your way.
The last time live pain broke you, you arose from prayers you’ll never pray
again—to fullest recollection of the stars beneath your skin,
the path that runs as deep as blood where all new signs and songs begin—
the tuft of hair that reeks of musk because last rut was when it tore
away from such a gallant shadow cast by moonlight, wanting more
than any—words—a hairs-breadth finer than the strength they take to tell—
but mind you well, the hare is trickster everywhere he casts the smell
of musk and ambergris aside and bids you go along: The Moon—
what if she’s really lying, and a light you still can’t read by? Soon,
the breaking down of tiny shells beneath such feet as dance all night:
Why are you afraid to fall asleep? Hold you my hand so tight,
the tuft of musky fur against your skin, as all the visions grow—
When you wake up next, you’ll tell me secrets only lovers know.
For now, whilst you’re still restless, what the wild hare shouts all round this heath:
So, my foot’s yours, but still it’s real, not like your pointless seashell teeth.
True or false: the end’s in view, so it has ways to signal you:
Tonight, wild hare across your path; tomorrow—secret paths through dew.
Not sure I’m going to try it again anytime soon. I got a lot more involved than I anticipated, and it was pretty draining. It was also confusing for someone I barely know to receive. He’s till speaking to me, but who knows what he’s really thinking.
Truth is, nearly all my work is amorous. The book I’m working on now certainly is. Can’t exactly apologize, as love songs are my calling.