Sorry if I'm distracted. My arm's damn near rotted off. Just a tattoo, sure. No. It's a scar. A storyteller. A Bushman shaman. Think of his stories. All ours untold, unique piles of shit. The voiceless unspoken. Hungry, not starving for respect like me, or love, because none comes with plenty, but expression. Sustenance. Nothing in, nothing out, written words are worthless. They die on the page, butchered by the pen, ink-bled and dried out. Stories spoken live, they breathe, ever-changing. Only I can’t help myself. I’m a born word murderer. My trade is verbal euthanasia. The Bushman’s not the only ink in my veins. He infects my soul, but he’s not my sole infection.
It's as if all this time I've been honing a weapon at home, learning to use, to respect and wield it to slit the life from all of you, only quite the opposite. I wanna wash you in blood, get in your head like a shaman and write my stories across your tongues. I wanna live on through all of you. I want you inside me. I want you to share me, use me and give me life. Like the Bushman.
Telling tales is innate. Stories sustain us. They're humanity's backbone, storytellers the spinal tap. For the sake of the present, history's our story in action. Anyone can tell it.
First, love words – feel them – stroke them out your throat like cum from a cock. Don't spit. Swallow. Fertilize the minds of who's listening by taking them in. Love them in spite of yourself, beside yourself in front of them, and stop time for the rest of us.
Every night my dreams are fresh flesh pink. Nightmares really, where my arm's gone or just the ink, and the meaning. I can't write. Gotta tie my shoes with my left hand. Everything. Hold a pen, drink a beer, touch my wife, myself... So please, forgive my distraction. I'm doing this for all of us, my life, and the future. Africa scarred me. Literally. Now I have to live the blood I've bled.
Infected first appeared in Having A Whiskey Coke With You, Vol. 1 Iss. 4, October 2011
Download a copy here: http://havingawhiskeycokewithyou.tumblr.com/
It's as if all this time I've been honing a weapon at home, learning to use, to respect and wield it to slit the life from all of you, only quite the opposite. I wanna wash you in blood, get in your head like a shaman and write my stories across your tongues. I wanna live on through all of you. I want you inside me. I want you to share me, use me and give me life. Like the Bushman.
Telling tales is innate. Stories sustain us. They're humanity's backbone, storytellers the spinal tap. For the sake of the present, history's our story in action. Anyone can tell it.
First, love words – feel them – stroke them out your throat like cum from a cock. Don't spit. Swallow. Fertilize the minds of who's listening by taking them in. Love them in spite of yourself, beside yourself in front of them, and stop time for the rest of us.
Every night my dreams are fresh flesh pink. Nightmares really, where my arm's gone or just the ink, and the meaning. I can't write. Gotta tie my shoes with my left hand. Everything. Hold a pen, drink a beer, touch my wife, myself... So please, forgive my distraction. I'm doing this for all of us, my life, and the future. Africa scarred me. Literally. Now I have to live the blood I've bled.
Infected first appeared in Having A Whiskey Coke With You, Vol. 1 Iss. 4, October 2011
Download a copy here: http://havingawhiskeycokewithyou.tumblr.com/
