Horology

Outside my old room,
humid with dreams, rain fell
warm in the arms of darkness,

drummed its thousand beats.

only roads and rails

and there were only 

roads and rails
a crossroads
beneath a horizon
a dangerous sky
where trees overshadowed
distance
and clouds
in a smoking heaven

Automatic Writing

The automatic poem wrote itself,
its pen, a jumbled board of keys,
a trivial swill of data and, here,
a work of art, soi-disant, appears.

Mine is the Art

Mine is the art of disorderly rhyme
every word broken, begged or borrowed,
every syllable spoken, a token of tomorrow.