Oh, this old thing?

Go Go! Strip down to the barest bones, pull your lips back from blood-soaked teeth, and snarl from ancient tongues.  The gouging of pen into paper drags my soul out like a dog on the end of a snare.  The purpose is to be free, so how then is that purpose?  Culled between posts of careful thought, the act of pen to paper lacks any sense of freedom for me.

These words will never be soap bubbles, lilting on a gentle breeze!  Too much the task of picking word and phrase from air and winding it around my thumb; squinching it between thumb and forefinger.  Holding it (phrase, word) at eye height, crunching it between bright incisors down to the marrow, the taste of it, the salty meat of each word mixing with breath and stone.

I crave each dainty lyric, each supple morsel of thought, like an angry chef dealing out rancorous scraps to banshee cats in the alley behind.  There are words that are spent, spit out, left half-chewed, unbaked, parboiled in the pantry of my mind, but it’s quick to write now!  Turn the phrases, dig the fly from the ointment, butter knife through hot molasses.

This day, these words will not be crushed by heavy hand.  Today they fly free, quick and slinging, peeling like an ostrich across a mud-soaked canyon.  The time drips and I cringe on the edge of my seat to birth these words in rapid-fire succession before my time runs out.


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