Tried my hand at automatic writing tonight, something I hadn't done in quite a while. I was inspired by the writing prompt on my friend Ken Ronkowitz's Poets Online site.

The Men of Our Imagination

The men of our imagination speak in the moonless night,
Their words unfit for public speaking,
Curling at their feet and growling
Slipping silently along the moistened ground

Decrepit they are in their features
Stone noses and calloused ears
Their eyes trip about, to and fro
Scanning each other, themselves, others, you, me

They cannot speak kindly; their words are only those of war
Quick sons of Mars, fecund friends to blood
They ache for visceral pleasures
For the steam of raw and tender flesh

Their hearts exposed; they beat relentlessly
Their breath is quick and redolent with meat
They know and relish primitive desires
Desires other men fear, cautious for their selves

Their whispers gurgle slick, both common and exotic
Their words sharp projectiles, slung like mean tacks
Their demeanors stolid, faces set, determined
Yet, their spirits are delirious, ripe with relish for their strength

We know the moon is not hidden by clouds
The moon all-knowing has fled for tamer quarters
Leaving the footprints of these men to be discovered
Only by future alien tribes who come and wonder

Robert Stribley
01/05/03

I don't know how true that is to "automatic writing," since there's a pretty clear and current theme running though it. I wrote it in a hurry though--does that count?