Happy Birthday (the humblest gift of five minutes of my life so far from yours)

Another few lines of automatic writing - semi automatic - another
five minutes of supremely passive fighting - another de-boned
attempt to deal with this crazy lighting as complex or as
simple as a city or a petal hanging into some hazy country
lane or some vast expanse of plain land behind hills
capturing in brilliance and hapiness (we know of this hapiness,
me and mine) a billion people by the seats of their pants or
whatever - I must turn this around this isn't what the
obscure editor made a request for had in mind. My brain thinks
in adolescent poetry Doctor! grevious mental harm
the long arm of the laws of literature and the shorter
arm of time and the shortest arm of resorting back to
that which you know has been trodden - into
safety. Certain types of crime - blank -
for the longest time (again!) exclaim + shout to
the sky, to the loam, the lime, the words beneath
my feet I alread wrote Must. Stop. Second. Guessing.
Myself. The bush agrees with a fairy host of
grey seeds soft launched into pure streaming air -
I could be thirsty for air if there - wasn't so much
about. One line - left (this is a second guess) so my
brian still sifting skips ahead and cannot stop I'm
getting closer - I tell myself - at least.