I have recently come across this prose piece attributed to surrealist poet Rrose Sélavy. I may post more excerpts from her journal later.
Look in, what do you see, a hole, a well with a slight mist of panic, adrenalin cloud barely perceptible drifting in the center of the abyss, surrounded and lifted by weaving strands, ribbons of music, rhythms of support and emptiness, purple and black and intense gold on the horizon’s edge, an updraft and a downdraft, something splitting in the region of the heart, half moves up, half moves down, moist breath released in the centre, reaching up and reaching down to connect with what? The sign of the Juggler, making a circuit, connections, a chain of links, so current can flow through, something released in the region of the heart, pink mist, there must be freedom in there somewhere, but what after? Just a blood mist and echo, dusty after-tang of things left too long before resurfacing, left too long unexcavated — revitalise, reverberate, replenish, reinvigorate, rejuvenate, restore, resurrect, reclaim, reconstitute, phoenix from the ashes.
A full-blown rose more beautiful for the edges just turning brown, three white roses cut and left on a step, retrieved in the dark and placed in a bowl of water, three roses, big as cabbages but much more delicate, much much more resilient.