There is an innate ability within a writer,

who shapes, shifts and shatters the dancing

wild dreams of his characters. Cutting and categorising

each construction across her pages, stanzas and acts.

He builds the fantasy that she later destroys, slapping together

adjectives and vowels as the mortar of their castles and

grinding together sibilance and assonance to grow

the wondrous fauna of their wonderland.

Writers control God, Zeus and their elements with

his pen or paper and her clacking corona typewriter

that dances across a white page; formulating fornication

and fabricating fallacies that do not make sense in any

world but their own and belong only on the coarse

paper on which they scribe.


But her greatest weapon is his greatest failure.

For the cold, black ink can never superimpose an image

That she has captured within his mind. Instead, the

verbs and parenthesis serve only as strange, foreign

markings to be translated in an instant where

eyes meet page and power fluctuates, wildly,

between God and her creations. A stone castle is

beautiful or grotesque and it’s princess is butch

or beautiful. Throughout the reading each party

claws and scrapes to dominate and understand

to show their mind but see the others. In these final

moments the writer is wild as she is lost in his

own world and at the mercy, or admiration,

of those that she does not know.

And all of the power she once had is gone.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s