Tonight—12:02 a.m.

Tonight—12:02 a.m. (A Failed Experiment in Automatic Writing)
Daulton Dickey.


Night rolls inward and I’m perched on a bed, supine and
Tired but alive and wired and
The city is wooing the walls outside, pushing its breath
Into the latticed screens and thumping the

Emptiness gnaws on my stomach and my

My head is an oven into which uncertain bakers
Peer—all tired and skeptical of the ingredients they’ve
Dumped into the bowl that is
Now threatening to crack beneath the
Of the culinary anarchists who through tradition and
No fault of their own
Slogged the push of the handle and the
Skeleton of the bowl boiling in the
Cacophony of their


Relationships are not diplomatic in nature
They’re the result of two tyrants making a
Commitment to curb their respective

Through wars and rumors of wars, through
Treaties and diplomatic maneuvers,
Through propaganda and exploitation
The tyrants reach unspoken agreements
Hold each other hostage—until
The hope for peace eventually slithers


Everything is broken and old and plasticine fetuses
Rot inside writhing wombs—where nothing grows
From the darkness of an eggshell morning whose sisters
Break the dawn and shatter the night and rain ruin on the
Brows of forgotten children—
Whose eyes coat the tears and streak the years and burn
Neurons in brain cells while the slates of amorphous genes
Reek of sinister decay—yet everyone burns and boils
And the sky turns and broils the eyeballs lurking in
And nothing holds anything, though no one can say the same
About the madmen exploring the niches buried in the streets—
Everyone runs and screams and no one is aware of the
Kaleidoscopes churning overhead—
Colors react to the fiery storm of twisted lies fluttering through
The air, all gloomy and bespoken and choking on the remnants of
Ash and debris floating through the membranes writhing between
The earth and the sky—
Men sit and wait for permission to die as women run and race
All around them—nothing grows from the meat inside the men’s
Although flowers sprout from their foreheads and reach for the skin
Of the sun—then flowers fail, and they wither and coagulate
And the songs of the lonely and the dying and the ill-informed
Pulse and hitch a ride on the waves of light exploding in the
Atmosphere—no one is solid or certain or confident in their
Broken and scaly woven plasticine shells


Pissing is exhausting when you haven’t had
Enough to drink, when the act and the habit of
Crossing the apartment and sulking into the
Bathroom serves as more of a respite than a

Sometimes it helps to examine yourself in the mirror,
To see if the lies in the eyes and hues of the blue
Pigments swimming in your irises are
Brittle or strong

It sometimes helps to have someone with
Whom you can


The world outside my window is crying and screaming
And trying to talk to me, and I steady my breath and
Try to make sense of the tones slapping the window
But the sound is rubbish and gibberish and
If night holds wisdom it has no knack for
Transmitting the
Purple solace of its appeal


O’ Christmas Tree
O’ Christmas Tree—
An orgiastic novelty—

All songs sound the same when your brain can
No longer maintain the balance of chemicals
Too eager to deride every decision
You want to make, or are capable of making

Everything tastes the same and everything
Looks the same: day and night are equally dark
And filtered through brown and gray,
And every thought is chased by messages
Telegraphing doubt or confusion into the
Meat hollowing your skull

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