Friends Don't Let Friends Play Word Association

It is a haunting thing, these shadows that search and spasm, the darkness of it overwhelming, overthrowing, over and over until it’s a tumbledown mess of madness, where the crawling flies lay eggs of wonder and as I reach up I realize I’ve been buried alive and he’s whispering in my ear quietly like singing crickets do at night unless I’m purely made of metal and not flesh which is the only reason I keep coming back here to open to open to open up all the things inside to lay them bare while every single possibility slips through and around and inside my head because all her angels were all she ever wanted but the black feathers came undone like some kind of unraveling at the seams doll like some kind of terrible dream thing that can’t touch and can never be touched not out of fragility but of a desperate power that can drink everything up and choke it all down and filter it out into great crocodile tears of white wine which she’ll drink when she dances over the place she knows I’ll walk some day after I’m finally born into the world where she had been already always standing.

* * * *

* * * *

Link me, baby. What are you reading? What have you written? Tell me a story.

No tags for this post.
This entry was posted in Fiction, Word Spasm. Bookmark the permalink.

0 Responses to Friends Don't Let Friends Play Word Association

  1. susielindau says:

    Okay. I dare you to say it all in one breath.. Love the prose!

    • What is it about this one, in particular, might I ask?

      • Trent Lewin says:

        This is more like writing the way I wish it was, more imagery and words rather than distinct events. I think most people either don’t understand that language can be used this way, or believe it’s just not commercial enough for their purposes. I think this is marvellous writing and use of words, the rhythm is sort of interesting too with the big sentence. I picture something like this surrounded by a more conventional story. I don’t know, I love writing like this, but don’t see it often. Salman Rushdie writes like this (in my opinion anyway), and I consider him the greatest living writer. Anyway, there’s enough imagery in this to justify it as poetry, but it’s distinctly prose. If you want specifics, best lines for me were the black feathers… doll one, and the last line, something about the already always standing that got me. Now all that said, could be I read it in right frame of mind, but just looked at it again and I have to say yeah, I really liked this, you are a writer. I will write something in your honour and post it on my blog thing, in my attempt to make sure people read you.

Go ahead -- say something. Anything.