“Writing is like fucking. Everybody thinks about it, few can do it well. I do it exceptionally myself.” – 2015, mememememe
My name is ________________.
I am twenty four years old.
I am made of broken glass and the genius syndrome.
I am a dark story. My creator is a bright girl, but she is afraid to DO. She burns her wishes into words that tremble on something’s edge.
We swap traits like girlfriends. She – shy, sensible. Me – a godawful, macabre mess of bound up fury and self-righteousness. We scanned the anthology together and our most used and abused word was ‘fire’ (and variations: flame, afire) – figures. Only the bad poets talk about burning.
I am on hotline, speed dial to her brain. She is writing this but I am dictating, the same way I push her to make herself into a martyr cum genius. I am thinking long term legacy, but she is not brave enough to bow out, protesting that there’s too much writing left in her for an early check out. Bullshit, the genius part snarls. Nothing exceptional ever happened to anyone in their thirties (like thirty was a dirty word).
She is fighting against every word and it makes me hum like a bee in a gas chamber. Don’t tell them. Don’t tell them about the part where we think we’re geniuses. Embarrassment burns spreading stains from cheek to brain. There we go with the burning again, we scold. Choose your words, don’t throttle them. How will anyone take us seriously?
Writing has opened me up in capacity. I am like a skin once worn by an animal, then flayed and laid out double in size. Skin on the floor. We realised there’s lots to be said for writing madness. She protests that the most flamboyant stuff is unnecessary but I counter: if you aren’t willing to die, we do it. The crazy stuff stays. Otherwise everyone will think you’re one of those shoddy confessional poets who went from slitting your wrists for attention to finding liberation in sucking dick.
More words. Metapoetry: think big. Think shock jock (well-worded and wow can she wrap her lips around a word) and the stuff you can get away with when you’re pretending to have an illness. I’m not pretending, she hisses but I wink. Use your words. She is good with words and that’s an understatement: words drip like honey from our acrid thoughtbox, twist like rattlesnakes from our pit and break unfiltered onto the page like the waves of a polluted sea. They are ink-black, oil-spilled. Ruined. When we get in the newspapers they’ll say it’s precocious and self-indulgent but I’ll have snapped our neck by then so it’s okay.
Touch words wrap words play with words stroke words fuck words. The best thing about words is the sound of the alarm bells afterwards dingalingalingalingaling
Words burn in us like –
Geniuses are always self-referential. Spot the joke. There is smoke curling from under the door. I instruct us to write like this long-term but she’s scared that means she can’t write anything else. I don’t disagree. Talent is as talent does.
You know, after the fact we tried to stay conscious but I guess an autobiographer is duty bound to fail. We called ourselves unreliable but they said everything fucked-up had already been done, and better, by middle-aged bald-headed seminal thinkers rather than twenty four year old, big-breasted compulsive liars.
We wrote too much. We burnt out.