Intertextuality
Watching his breath as his chest rises and lowers, brings me into the present. His blue eyes sparkle in the sunlight streaming in from the classroom window. I can still feel the soft fur underneath my fingertips. I look down at my fingertips and see them. I think of the lesson and the many layers that we set upon ourselves over and over and over again in order to create. My fingers have seen too much. Yet too little has come from them and more is demanded of them. And who must take them over? Who are the ones to guide these delicate layers to greatness?
The Dead ones are the easiest for me to connect to. Their ghostly words echo in my head and I can feel their presence. I can see them standing by my writing desk, looking at me and me at them, as though I’m standing at a mirrors reflection. Their excitement raises as they feel their influence on my fingers as I put pencil to paper. They guide me to a place unexplainable; in between time when all the mundane is lost and become only faint ideas of a forgotten dream. And the dream that is my writing comes fully awakened as I light the candle on my desk to begin. As the flame expands with newly burnt wax; the room expands with great writers and poets; Yeats, Thoreau, Emerson and my Great Grandmother Viola. And oh yes; Hemingway. My great love. Though never had we met, I am certain that we were once tangled in the pages of our long forgotten books.
Oh Hemingway, take me away from all the loss and grief and tangled up knots of distrust and vile things. Slip love notes onto my tongue and poor liquid prose into my womb. Rip out my heart from its bony root as you would tear a corset from the bosom of a married sinner. Whilst my bare heart lie in your hands, blood drips from your fingers and mixes with my tears and then falls into a pool of despair on our sweaty loins. Blood and tears and cum and sweat, blend together to form the faded pink shade of blush on my pale cheeks. You push your chest up against my back forcing my breasts to press against the keyboard, your fingers interlaced with mine – tips to the keys. Orgasmic moans of poetry and vigorous language fly from my hands onto the page and you shout. “Write! Damn you! Write! I can hear your desire to create like a locomotive in my head. You whisper letters in my ears; text that are lips in my veins. And we write. A collaboration of heaven and hell, love and sex, darkness and light. I can smell your alcoholic breath on my skin mixed with musky smells of your sweat and semen. And the words pour like the bottle onto the pages in front of me; one right after the other. You have forced yourself upon me Hemingway and while I dare dream to push back; instead we linger in a lover’s writer’s purgatory. Your words, my skin, the breath of prose seeping from my very pores. In the peak of climax, before the very moment of release, words form onto the page at a heated pace. We come to it now, the release, the finale. I shriek as your very being merges with mine and in full union we now have our masterpiece. You cum into me like death as I know I will never be my waking self again.
