The Writer
He tears my chest open, rips out my heart and publishes it for all to read. Every word that drips from his fingers is a tear that drips from my eyes, a bead of sweat that forms on my brow, a glossy, lustful trickle that slickens my labia.
He sucks the air straight out of my lungs and breathes into his writing to blow me away. He holds my churning stomach intertwined with his every phrase. His sentences snake long through my body and form knots in my throat, choking me. The force of his telling hollows out my chest.
He structures each piece with the shivering quiver of my thighs. He sets the rhythm to the pulsing blood beat coursing through my veins. He writes electrified signals that shock my every nerve. His every paragraph is an incantation that moves me.
2 October 2007 at 8:16 pm
I never liked Alan Titchmarsh’s books that much, really. I always thought he should have just stuck to the gardening programmes.
3 October 2007 at 1:12 am
Well, he must write exquisite things then indeed.
3 October 2007 at 1:59 am
And if you told him, would he know?
3 October 2007 at 6:22 am
They’ll do that to you those writer-types.
3 October 2007 at 10:16 am
AUW: You are endearingly clueless.
Camille: You know he does.
OE: I think he already knows.
Lillipilli: So can those photography types.
3 October 2007 at 1:30 pm
“You are endearingly clueless.”
I want that on a T shirt. Or my tombstone.
3 October 2007 at 9:34 pm
It’s almost like you wrote the post and dedicated to somebody.
I love that personal touch.
Have you ever had a post dedicated to you, Ani?
3 October 2007 at 11:30 pm
A post dedicated to Ani? What a unique concept! Oh wait… that seems to ring a bell somehow.
He must feel fortunate to inspire those reactions, however deserved.
3 October 2007 at 11:35 pm
Ben: It’s yours. Free of charge, my good man.
AUW: Why yes, Unreliable Witness of An Unreliable Witness fame, I have just had the lovely, intelligent and quite insightful Melograna of Complicity fame include my humble name in a post title. Ahem. Personal touch indeed.
Bohémienne: This is becoming incestuous, is it not? :)
6 October 2007 at 9:38 am
These literate types slay me (I slay me, too). But seriously, what use is a man who can’t express himself in writing? And this is a beautiful piece of writing about that.
6 October 2007 at 9:47 am
Melograna: You slay me, too, obviously, though not for obvious reasons. What use is anything if it can’t be expressed?
7 October 2007 at 11:49 am
Hmm, makes any writer sound somewhat vulture-like, which I suppose is very accurate…
8 October 2007 at 11:25 am
Ariel: Mmm. Yes, I hadn’t thought of it that way. Although, these literary vultures don’t wait until things are dead, on the contrary. They feed on life.