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Write something precarious. watch

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    You have untapped creativity in you--I know it. Everybody does. Look deep inside yourself and write what comes from the part of your brain you wish to show nobody. It could be anything. It doesn't have to make sense--I even implore that.

    I'll start.

    Faded. I inhale you through a pipe, the succulent vapour of your organs kicks my throat and scratches my lungs. If I see you in the afterlife, you will be my perfect pleasure: exquisite. Strayed from thought and time we will meet as foes.

    The pages in a book saw fiercely through your thoughts, your mind knocks back the allusive drink of the myth of thought, and juices run from your ears and his nose, oozing across your desk into the thin cracks of charred wood.

    And I see you lying there, dead from knowledge, and I wish to kiss you one last time. For your lips are much sweeter than any wine, and I would kill a man to look into your dove eyes. But what you did is unspeakable. I push my nickel thumb prints of stars into your deep November eyes.

    I cannot help it. I hum.

    I could swallow your peanut butter skin and dine on your body, and call me a slug-and-lettuce. Love begins in a single room. It blossoms; death. Death of love and death of glory. The book that killed you lies next to your bloodied hair and reaps what it has sown. I would have done it, your gangling ego cuts sharp and leaves a great scar down my finger. Perhaps it isn’t your ego; perhaps with the death of beauty and love your words sharpened on a fingernail whetstone into a weapon.

    Perhaps you are cutting to harvest. Not all cutting is death. Your insomnia thickens the dust on each photograph and greases them with blood. From each angle of trembling angst the glass of the frame looks like a fibrous infection with loudly contaminated limp grey. There are teeth dug into the tapestries and roses of death growing between the tufts of ashen grass. They look at you with pejorative eyes and you can only kneel.
 
 
 
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