This is how André Breton, the “founder” of Surrealism, defined it:

Pure psychic automatism, by which one proposes to express, either verbally, in writing, or by any other manner, the real functioning of thought. Dictation of thought in the absence of all control exercised by reason, outside of all aesthetic and moral preoccupation.

A day or so ago, a very close and respected friend questioned why don’t I write more. While there are a few reasons, the chief remain a lack of motivation, and a lack of recognition. There isn’t enough around that makes me feel like writing, and when I see others, with, all due respect here, far inferior writing getting kudos by the dozen it really does drive a shrapnel home. Friends ask here and there why must this be important, and why can’t I just write because I, well, can, and I’m as far away from a convincing answer as I’ve been.

However, that did get me thinking: I seriously ought to write more. It isn’t that I wasn’t thinking on these on my own, but these thoughts were just accelerated. And thus ignited, I just put pen to paper, or, speaking accurately, finger to keyboard, and just started writing. Without actually thinking, without actually giving shape, in as much as the fashion of what the Surrealists called “automatic writing”.

From what or where the following has come, or what the deuce does it mean, is as much as your guess as it is mine. I’ve finally written something that I don’t fully comprehend, I only hope you do.

And if you do, I’d love to hear your impressions in the comments below…


Walk past me, and through me,

And cover me up in shades of mahogany,

Look at me, look within me,

I am just here, as are you.


No, the winds won’t come between us today,

Nor will I let dreams bring us apart,

I have a notion, a thought, a life that I must live,

You! And all of me, you!


Now come away, within, beneath, above,

Come away, so that we can build again,

I don’t want to see, I don’t want to be seen,

Anything that I must, nothing that I should.


However dark comes, let it,

For what shall there be, if not there be dark,

Light shall strike, and bring back romance,

For from her deathly place, I smell fragrance.


Come on now, love, come on over,

Time’s less, and lesser shall it get,

Each passing hour brings the beginning closer,

It is time we end, both you and me.


Come now, away, and we shall be someplace,

Away from these tears that shield you,

Away from these stars that bring me smile,

Away, you and me, away and no more.


For when the walking is done, and the running ceases,

When are eroded, like my feet, the memories of that haunted Valley of Hope,

When everything has collapsed into rubble,

From that debris, in that death, Hope and Life shall rise.


Your thoughts, your criticism, your feedback – all are very welcome. They help me know if what I’ve written resonates with you. Please consider leaving a comment below and telling me how this piece made you feel.


6 thoughts on “Rubble

  1. And one more reason not to write is lack of freedom, sometimes from our self (I don’t know if it’s the case with everyone). Writing, and writing what we want to write, in a surrealistic way, is not always that easy! Use of some subtle imagery gives a bit of freedom, but still..

    By the way, nice poem, and a bit of abstract as it is! Bless you an afternoon (and may be a lot) in the mahogany shade 🙂


    1. And to that blessing, amen!

      And for it, thanks!


  2. Took my breath away, made me wish for a lover. Delightful! You should let your pen run free more often, you must.


  3. To be honest, I did not expect so profound a positive note. Thanks, madame!


  4. You make romance come alive through your words… I love that! 🙂
    I like ..
    “No, the winds won’t come between us today,

    Nor will I let dreams bring us apart,

    I have a notion, a thought, a life that I must live,

    You! And all of me, you!”

    Hope to read more soon..


    1. Coming from you, that means a lot.



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