The Killing Game

wrioters bloc

As I try and write, no words come to mind, no phrase, no catch, no venom, no spite, I stare at you my friend, my blank despairing friend and wait for inspiration from you or whoever, but still you lie silent and watchful, the ever vigilant emptiness of your words are the nails within my coffin, It fits so well, now that I'm back amidst the throng,the heaving, sweating society I love and loathe so much, the crass, immoral people that I strive to find at every turn of my head, the unbearable company I crave for at every twist in the rope, the hate, the lies, the deception of every waif and stray, the very things I long to hate, the things I hate too long,

The mire of my mind, reeling upon it's self in shock and ecstatic paranoia, struggling to breathe the thick, pungent, fresh air of life, murky and sad like the very depths of Hell, no, no Religion, too much not to talk about, like where are my dreams and hopes, my soul, are they inebriated by intention or has my lifeblood been ripped from my throat by the very lifeblood it's self  Everyone is so complacent in their complacency , so righteous in their righteousness, so quick to punish kith and kin, stranger and foe, with the same limp flicker of the proverbial wrist, the same sidelong sneer, the same frightened, mouse like whimpering of time, and indeed, time gone by, the same, always the same,

To the multi faced beast we call man, which is the real me- the one I loathe or the one that loathes me, who can tell with honesty and zeal, and so the circle goes, on and on, back and forth, forth and back, the pendulum of erotica, the pudendum of life, the crass, the cruel, the quietly sane, where are they, now I need someone to scorn, how I need someone to reject, to call upon another day when I need to be scorned and rejected, raped by the very presence I keep close to me on the milk white nights of old

The grains of sand between the sheets are the passing of the last time we met and didn't have the time or the courtesy to descend the snakes and avoid the ladders of the oldest and the latest game on Earth, the pressure of keeping the pressure off is taking it's toll on the quo of momentum - ad infinitum,

I'm the last resort of a dying breed and still you deny me, my only friend, I sit and wait for your words of parody and heavy hearted abandon, cigarette poised to attack my already cancerous abode, my already burning throat, my haunted soul, will you speak one more time to ease and appease, or will you lie back and laugh that sickly sweet laugh of one who knows, the silence you answer me with is requiring thought of which I have nought, but still you sit and wait as if that were all there was to it, and smile, and wait for me to tell you a story you know so well, well, you who have been through this mangled mind as often as I, maybe more, friend, maybe more, and still the innocent freshness of your approach continues to hide the truth of your wisdom, I probe that blank despairing guile you nature so matronly and wonder, as I do now so frequently, are you the writers accomplice, a pawn to be thrown from the board, just footsteps in the wind, or are you the master craftsman in the Killing game, please, my beautiful, virgin, meditative scroll speak of confusion and treachery  or at least hope above hope, of what lies beyond this page, beyond the end, beyond beyond,

Deceive me if it humours you but no more of this all foreboding nothingness, give me words, phrase, catch, venom, give me spite to fight this sad affair we call life, let loose the torrents of abuse I hear boiling, the scathing remarks I feel ashamed to be a part of, my muse, my sage, my mentor, some small reprieve is al I crave, one last retort to swallow my pain, allow me the fitful sleep which denies the owner the right to reply,

My holy, muted friend, fear not that from within, together we can beat the game, together we shall be the multi faced beast we call man, let all be lost from consciousness and let us sleep and conjure fragments of tomorrow, tattooed upon my weary brow for all to mock, then may we realise our paths have just begun to flow, we must flood the petty pride of humanity, we must scour the depths of duty and cower from the magnitude of omnipotence, just one word from you my sacred realm, my deity of injustice, I shall forge a link of power,

Still you sit my bland, revolting friend, patiently waiting your remand, the secret smile of silence wrapped around your form, the empty pearls of wisdom, enveloped within your folds, I seek vengeance, for all the mighty woes, the pen commands the useless sword, but the sword denies the pen, I marched naked into battle, with parchment as a womb, a new world, the unwritten word, utterly alone,

I stare at you my friend, my blank despairing friend, and wait for inspiration from you or whoever, but still you lie silent and watchful, the ever vigilant emptiness of your words are the sods upon my grave.

Reviews

[barleygirl]

Many writers cannot write this well when they're trying hard to do so, whereas this stream of consciousness writing from you seems to be raw & unfiltered in all the best ways. It feels natural, the way the word crafting tumbles out as part of this otherwise unstructured piece. It's like you think in terms of how words sound together & pairing interesting parallel ideas in words that are similar sounding. This shows that you have an innate love of words & word crafting that even shows up when you're spilling carelessly across the page. I personally do not stay engaged during the two longest spiels where sentences are run-on and the ideas are tumbling in complexity. It's a good exercise to do & show here, you never go on too long, but I do get the "glazed eyes" syndrome in a couple of spots. (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[Shazbatt969]

Thanks for your critique, Margie, I do think of word soundage more than content and context , and yes I do have an innate love of words and poetry and this was kind of diarrhea I also got glazed eyes syndrome in a couple of spots, but hopefully still compos mentos in the end

[Eilis]

I actually love when people write about not being able to write. It’s like taking control of your own mind in a way. The muse or invisible hand are forces to be reckoned with, but also, we have our own power when we choose to break through and claim it without apology.

I never would have thought to say what Margie said because I almost always think of ideas instead of words as an aural force. This is my approach and also a blind spot of mine. I assume everyone sees the world similarly, well, not exactly, but I assume that the things I think about when writing are the same ones others think about. But you’ve said plenty of times that it is the language itself that drives you. And I do see that here, but I wouldn’t have said it because that’s just not how I process things.

So, thank god for a variety of voices. And here I go back to ideas and say this idea can be applied to your work here.

The voice in the writing seems to be saying something similar. Asking for cooperation outside of the self and for the power to wield words that may not be completely understood, but will eventually shed some light where before there was none. Or at the very least deliver a release.

Of course language in and of itself is something beautiful and empowering. It has allowed us to do many things we could not easily do otherwise. It can be simple or it can be complex. It can reflect our own thoughts or someone else’s. It can lie or tell the truth and it does all these things without motive or alignment. It is what it is because we writers and readers impart meaning.

So, I’ve just gone up the garden path, sorry. I guess what I am trying to say and also work out is that no matter how we approach reading or writing, the power of language is transferred and loaded and these things take place in two minds simultaneously (at least). And it’s never really possible to have a perfect meeting of the two minds because every mind processes information uniquely. Every experience having its own individual effect that builds the castle of the mind into what it is.

All that to say, I felt this was reaching outward. Language is weapon and healer, balm and wound. Most importantly it is a tool for reaching others and transferring our own understanding. But it’s not always even easy for us to do it when our hearts and minds are full of words. Sometimes it feels necessary to invoke some power outside the self to translate the untranslatable. Sometimes we need something outside ourselves to help us understand what our brains are trying to filter through.

I’ve probably just said a lot of unrelated drivel, but that’s what this made me think. And in the spirit of demonstrating my own theory here, I’m not going to try and perfectly align my ideas, but just let them stand as a response.

This is a great invocation of the muse. Sometimes our power of persuasion is all we’ve got.

[Shazbatt969]

hey, Eilis, thanks for your unrelated drivel, lol,, but actually spot on, how do we write when the muse is gone, for sure we must, she has many invisible hands to guide and sometimes the flood of words the deluge is too much to contain, and sometimes there is f**k all, lol, the power of language, this word means this use it at your will/peril, haha, thanks for reading and pontificating, great word, lol, seriously thanks for the read, Eilis, always appreciate your views

[John Alexander McFadyen]

Ah ya dozy b*****d Celtic just won the trebble!
And you want to write cut throat poetry as my wife calls my darker pieces!
OK we all hit dry patches but you just pissed up the wall with this Catholic guilt filled piece of Poe!

[Shazbatt969]

steady on, dude I thought it was an accomplished matury piece of work, as the scots would say, this was written a decade before the invincitrebletrebletrebles, by the way

[John Alexander McFadyen]

The Poeish edge is palpable in this piece. Oh I am no 'Tic fan by the way I gave it up for a decent shaped ball lol!