You deserve to be choked around your lying throat and this how it happens, slowly.
you become an antly queen, wrapped in a state of endless convulsive reproduction
stitches from an seeping incision peck at your nightshirt, your left ear compulsively itching
an anvil magnet hurls toward your face, drawn by the force of your dental metal
curdsandwheycurdsandwheycurdsandwhey stuff your face, your rush to vomit thwarted by a locked door
a stroke-like Brain Gong summons a huge bubbling soldier cloud your eyes cannot penetrate, and ruins your complexion
letter strings, bits and vowel sounds, thrashing commas and consonants, squeeze your hairless neck, nightmare images of which you deserve to be plagued
tied securely by my hand for you
and my joyously adept skill at the keyboard
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Author's Note
Writing as a form of imaginative hatred
Other stories by Angela Kubinec
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This is the heart:
"letter strings, bits and vowel sounds, thrashing commas and consonants, squeeze your hairless neck, nightmare images of which you deserve to be plagued
tied securely by my hand for you"
I understand the redress of poetry.
I feel it. *
You could power a small city with this.
Hot charge! *
Reading a biography of Robert Lowell, a poet who apparently liked to choke women. I've counted three so far, only on page 322.
Con, we all have our quirks. That's just an average of one every hundred pages or so. Doesn't make me want to read. It is a long time between episodes. What else is he doing? I mean, other than writing.
The pen *is* mightier than the sword! Fuckin'-a right it is.
*
Great read!
Does anybody else around here smell something on fire? Oh yeah, it's this writing! It's burning and producing a smoke dragon in the sky.Good stuff!
Ooh delicious violence.*
"curdsandwheycurdsandwheycurdsandwhey stuff your face, your rush to vomit thwarted by a locked door"
I cannot express my love for this.
*
"a stroke-like Brain Gong summons a huge bubbling soldier cloud your eyes cannot penetrate, and ruins your complexion"
Wonderful! Humor is the key.
Fine work in the line of Marinetti and Tzara.
Sometimes you just have to get it out*