And, what a sweet, sweet bondage it is. I would be nothing without this bondage, this pain.
The same pain that drives the narrative of my novel. Not just words, or whole sentences, but pages of writing. Reams and reams of it. Yes, it’s the kind of bondage a writer dreams of.
The same pain that made me write a poem before I had typhoid last April (and nearly didn’t make it) and then revise it after I recovered. Sort of the “before” and “after” phenomenon.
The “before” version is a bunch of suppressed longing. “If you only knew” seems to rule. The “after” version is more about screw this suppression. Here is my heart. Bloody. Sinewy. Pulsating. Take it or ignore it till it stops beating, and turns black and blue with rigor mortis.
Now, I am not even sure if it’s the same poem anymore.
The “before” version titled, “Cannibal,” along with two other poems, is in Danse Macabre. Read them here.
The “after” version titled, “Cannibal 2,” is forthcoming in Subliminal Interiors next month. Watch this space.