The cunning linguist

I have erections dreaming

of scraping my sharpened quill

over thickened wood pulp,

dragging blood lines of black

octopus PMS

pools,

or the ways to chisel with rock

onto rock,

making soft indentions at my leisure

and pleasuring myself to the symbols of

my imagination’s fancy,

or hearing the delicate click-clack of metal

letters from speed riddled fingers

pressing onto ink ribbons making themselves

as sacrificial offerings to the paper

and ink drop at a time.

I go faster and faster, scribbling, scratching, typing, biting, pressing, pushing, yelling the words out with ecstasy in every intonation.

The words gushing out, working as my

poltergeist.

Till it all runs out and I am spent

in the corner shivering and praising the unknown God

with the unknown tongue I have just created from

scratch.

#307