words and stuff

Monday, May 2, 2011

writing = fucking




Some call it writer's block. I call it a momentary lack of lust for life.

I'm all stone-cold with dust in my mouth; the guy who goes limp with a nipple on his tongue, or the wife with a perpetual headache.

Mr. Hemingway tells me, all you have to do is sit at a typewriter and bleed.
Problem is, I need a transfusion and I don’t have any viable candidates.

 I pick up The Angel's Game and flick through it. In that gilded oyster shell of a novel I found a little pearl of wisdom.

‘Inspiration comes when you stick your elbows on the table, your bottom on the chair and you start sweating. Choose a theme, an idea, and squeeze your brain until it hurts. That's called inspiration.’

And so I meekly set bottom on seat and elbows on table, take a firm grip of my brain and wring it. I'm sitting here, bleeding onto the screen, smearing my brain-juice all over it, full of grit and the odd blod clot, and you're lapping it up like a pup at its mother's teat.
Can you taste it? The metallic fullness of the blood as it seeps through your lips and blossoms out over your tongue;the  sickening crunch as your teeth grind over a piece of bone and the strangling feeling as my hair slides down your throat, making you gag once, twice and then swallow it whole?

It is now that I think of how I would describe the art of writing.

Writing is fucking.
As I type this, I drag my fingers over your lips, run my tongue along the ridges of your teeth and whisper breathily into you ear. Your eyes, as they scan over these letters, are dusting across the undulations of my skin and exploring every crevice. You are kissing my eyelids as I claw at your back -- you take my throat in your teeth and tear it out with the voracity of a lion lunging at its prey. My blood spurts in to your mouth as you pump your juices  - saliva, blood, pus, cum, everything - into me.
Writing is an exchange of bodily fluids, of breath and of fire, of skintoskin and mouthtomouth; I breathe my words into your mouth and you spit them back out at me.
 As we roll over, bleeding and exhausted from our rollicking romp, I glance at the clock and realise it's time to go.
You were amazing. I can hardly talk, I'm so out of breath, baby.

Promise you'll come back soon? I want you again already.


1 comment:

  1. Writing = Fucking. I think that's one of the best uses of an = sign I've seen. You've got to be as much of a word nerd as me to really appreciate that compliment.

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