Friday, January 15, 2010


The electric eels would slide through my veins as I was being touched. The delicate kissing that would start off slow and soon;--just like fingers warming up at your typewriter; increase with ravenous passionate bursting of lips. The vertigo that overcame my senses as I stood up,--still kissing-to walk into the other room with the bed. The other room with the bed in it that turned to colors of magic after my body had been engulfed with orgasmic waterfalls.
I had always wanted to be with a writer. Sexually, I figured they were good in bed because of the way they describe their surroundings, their own thoughts so perfectly. They made everything much more beautiful, colorful, visionary and then on the opposite side of the spectrum horrid, and uglier than anything I've ever read in my entire life. I have been with artist of all forms- intellectuals of all sorts. But the writers--the real ones who write everyday-who have to write everyday-the ones who still bang on the keys of typewriters. I wanted IT. Bad. I was of unsound mind and fantasized about relationships like NIN and MILLERS. Two writers that were feverishly in love with one another and through it all-writings-letters- evidence- of how crazed love and passion could make you.

Like being tangled in the web of a spider and wanting to escape but also longing to be wrapped up and drained of the very life that is inside of you. The people-these writers- are rare beings. Words of passion float in their blood. They write no matter the circumstance. Whether it be sun, rain, or snow, the fire rages out of the fingertips. It happens in tiny one room apartments with great views of the river. Great men with writing machines on tables in the middle of their snug rooms with only necessities surrounding them-crowded calendars of the past hang on their walls. These are the people that pay close attention to small beautiful details that others eyes can’t discern. The lonely men that drink and chain smoke banging out keys, some of them wishing it were a woman’s body their fingers were touching. Well- I wanted to be that body! I wanted to be the goddess muse, the picture behind the rhythmic words. The inspiration. The madness. I wanted to experience the last of the romantics. The writers. I wanted them to think of me, as I do of them.

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