(Full of (foul), you are society’s ire incarnate….////
(Burn that witch/turn her heart… black)///
Use your paw to punch a gaping maw- -..
…/// (Bloody gullet, … let it flow over tongue, tooth and lip).
Let your children bathe in fire, (born anew)…. Let your desolation angels roam (free), cursing this ill-gotten – (land)….
Claw open the skin of this earth/let flow her fiery blood/ … to burn each plant and tree///
It was no good. It was too dark, too miserable, too damn silly and too damn awful to proceed with at this late hour. What the hell had he been thinking, he thought as he dashed out a few squiggles and symbols on the broken lines of a half-hearted poem. He just couldn’t get into it. It was a waste of ten minutes, no less and no more. The imagery was vivid, sure, but it was just ridiculous. Especially at his age where he should know better, should be better surely? He jabbed his newly sharpened pencil into his hand, a quick defiant flick to make sure he was still alive and still feeling.
Yes he was and he sure as hell wouldn’t be getting lead poisoning from that small scratch, no matter how much he heard his infant self suggest so in such innocent tones. He’d need a bullet or two to do that.
Writing came easily, even in his childhood where he could whip up a story out of thin air. It continued, for a while, into adolescence but necessarily slackened off when girls took his interest instead. It returned, sharper than ever, as he reached the waning years of his teenage life. Never announced itself as such, he just picked up a pen every other day and doodled a quick story or two on a pad of paper that was lying around. He sent letters as well, hand wrote but rarely read, and eagerly awaited replies that never came. Ah well everyone is busy these days he’d reason to himself, no one has time to spare half an hour or so, to dedicate a task to a single person when they could be messaging everybody at once on social media. Announcing their new found love to the world, or sharing an intimate picture to people they’d only met once and even then only briefly. No, he wrote alone and for himself. His handwriting was awful anyway.
The stories, well they changed and grew, some became novels, others became short stories. Sometimes it was fiction, sometimes non-fiction. Often he’d plan a whole novel in his head but it actually never came out onto paper as new ideas pushed aside old, and screamed for their place in the sun. Sure he made a living out of writing, a meager one, but it was a living none-the-less. Not many could say that these days.
The coughing fits started again after he scribbled and crossed out most of the above poem, malformed as it already was. Blood splattered in little droplets onto the fine paper, parachuting down in an attempt to escape a dying body.
He knew this too, of course, and didn’t begrudge any of the droplets their last attempts at freedom. In fact he was rather envious, even as they gathered in number and deformed his poem further. It was a rather beautiful sight though, the blood of life, oxygenated in full in the fresh breeze of a summer morning. His wife heard him, as she always did, and rushed to be by his side, such was the situation of his advanced condition.
It wouldn’t be long now, no it wouldn’t be long.