Write to Live and Live to Write

Swift Essay in Surrealism

I sit trying to begin, delete my words, try again.
Seeking something to unlock my dark, gilded passion. Lost, lost. My lament, my dream of noxious delights, found at the bottom of a bloated body bag.
My nightmares die, their hollow bellies swollen with words I never pen. Close my eyes and begin blind, see the keys of my board with prints of my eyes, where keys melt like the Dali’s clocks, letters running away from misconceptions, abandoning me at the edge of a lake of lice, my fingers chasing the stretched words, spiders pinning letters to a board, sucking their dry radish souls.
The ears, watch for the ears, they hear what eyes do not feel.
An epitaph: Calamitous Sensuality!