Here’s some work I did over a year ago with interesting imagery that makes the prose imaginable. Surreal descriptions, please like and comment if you love my style. This work needs revision, i hope there’s no harm in sharing this!
I had a dream where I was running frantic across the Atlantic coast towards great heaving breasts, stranded orcas gasp, some facing that hot sun, white bellies up. I heard their dying chatter in my head. THen I had this other dream where Adam and Eve are throwing fruit at each other. Adam does a combat role into the bush as Eve, standing naked in the open, chucks mangoes. I could be an artist if I knew how to be brave.
I’d confess my love for Moreau and my passion for minimalist art. I was really good and everyone wanted to know about my success and how did you put so much into so little, I would answer “Part of the problem was investing intellectual seriousness in my work and trying not to pay too much attention to cinematic drama.” No would would guess that I was saved like a teddy bear at the dump.
Gangs bearing other hungry artists would recruit me. The serpent told Eve that Adam was going to hit her soon if she didn’t keep dodging him. By the ocean I took off my summer dress and ran naked towards the rushing water. I dipped the fabric in and thrust it out like a net, running, always running, back to the washed up whales in vain, trying so hard to keep them alive. Why did these monoliths die this way?
In all honesty, and that’s saying a lot here, I didn’t have an outstanding painting career. The smoking room is filled with other various artists, the joint is passed around. “But if I could paint,” I said letting out a cloud of smoke – “I’d paint Adam throwing fruit at Eve. I’d paint a scene of several whales washed up on a beach.” This guy sitting in the circle with the rest of us looks up at me with a cynical glare. “I dream a lot,” I said on the offensive. This guy retorts “Do I look like a therapist to you?” And because I thought this was really funny, I burst into laughter.
Who does a girl like me talk to, I sat beside myself peeking around the smoking room. My eyes stop on a poet who sucked the joint with her Lolita lips until she made a kissing sound and blew out lovely plumes of smoke. With surprisingly little effort, the smoke delivered blooms of peonies, so the poet reminded me of the poetic names peonies have, like Buddha’s Lotus Seat, Purple Pheonix Flying to the Sun,& Fat Concubine.
Her wrist were thin and her fingers were thinner. When she passed the torch she took it between her nails, as thin as a heart’s cell, and pointed it to the next sucker. She said mostly to herself, “What a smokescreen.” Her eyes dropped to her jagged knees.
I hit it so hard I choke like a maniac, my lungs desperate for lubrication. Then I fall back to bed.