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The Thing Written
The thing written is a sexual thing, may bite, tell a truth some have died for, even the most casual initialing is a touch of love and what love goes for. A sometime thing, it smiles or has an ugly grin, on the page or wall may be holy and a sin. Writing wants, must have, must know, is flesh, blood, and bone, proof we are not made to be alone. Beneath a dove and rainbow some bank their fire, wrap their erogenous zones in barbed wire. Writing may dance in ink flamenco, kneel before the cross, right wrongs, fall in love at first sight, honor the naked languages it holds tight, kidnap, suck or be sucked for hire, may look and look or sneak a look, it has eyes, can read, is remarkable. From the tower of sexual babble, when dreams were the beginning of writing, the angel of dreams descended, stair by stair, the stone watchtower became the first stone book. Writing never speaks word, may ache to talk, and yet each letter of any alphabet is a fragment of desire, like half and quarter notes on a staff, or a hawk, may swoop down, fly higher and higher to catch a word, and then another word. The sexual thing may be all love or malice, eunuchs writing in the Forbidden Palace where poets dressed in rags, or silk and lace. The thing written touches, kisses, cuddles, may be democratic, autocratic, medieval in the 21st century, feudal, imperial, animal, sexually digital, a Serf, a King, a Queen, la chose écrite est une chose sexuelle. I had a woman beautiful as the letter l. There is the passion of letters, each may mean another thing, be defaced, after a while. Writing leans forward, there is a certain optimism in the written word, a sexual sunrise that is not daybreak. Words, words, a carnival of wordplay on St. Nobody’s Day. Reader, look, there is an S, a snake on the cross of the letter T. The letter of love is still the open-legged V. How can I dot the i with humanity?