Ever have someone suck your entire soul from you in an hour? Ever walked away from a conversation wondering if your lips should be sewn together, leaving you with every reason to cease interspecies association? Ever been so excited by something that you literally feel all tingly as children's books might describe, and suddenly find cause to change your mind as if you were tethered to an on/off switch?
The more I struggled, the more tightly I was wound; strands of distant
logic whipping about my flailing extremities and pulling me close. I
spoke, but to my surprise all that passed my lips was a viscous goo, not
only unintelligible but quite tacky as if kindergarten flour and water
paste. It oozed from me on its mission, to further secure my doom by
adhering me in some permanent way to the beast's tapestry, my very being
interlaced within its weave.
At last, my entrapment complete,
my last wiggle waggled, the beast itself chittered along its shimmering
filament highway and approached me, jaws opened, controlling hunger
its only cause. Without so much as the customary paralyzing
preliminary, it crudely made its beveled mark of ownership, then with
some dastardly chitinous tool proceeded to inhale every ounce of life
from my bones, never stopping once if even only to breathe, until I was
nothing but physical shell and subconscious thought; and that, a sorry
puddle of confusion and self pity.
It's been hours I've hung
here, immobile, disconnected from reality, wondering what my next step
might be and then, laughing at the thought that within my grasp might
even be a next step. I am cocooned, a relic of a once tasty late morning
snack for one of great appetite; for one of enormous need. I am empty
and only waiting for the rain to break this web free of its hold, and
pound me into the earth where I might become one with my creator, dust
to dust as is written.
I don't know why after years of
discussing this with myself and others I can't stop giving people power
they don't have. I am used up, spent, out of answers and even out of
ideas at the moment. If the grim reaper's out there somewhere, stop by; I
won't even put up a fight.
I was flying through my mind one day when spider came to call
he said "You and I should write a book! A tale of big and small!
I've the schooling, you regurgitate, we'd soon find wealth and fame!
Let's attack this "muse co-operative", and make ourselves a name!"
I was happy and excited, I'm a fly for heaven's sake;
and a spider came to offer me a share of give and take!
I was flattered and delighted with the chance to stretch my wings
Why just think, if I were published, I'd be twice as sickening!
So I flew right off to meet him in his web infested lair
since a fly can only live so long, I took the spider's dare
and I brought some buzzy poetry, a few short stories too
soon though, spider's eyes stopped scanning them, he looked quite spider blue
"It's your method" said the spider, "it's your lack of light and glee
It's the heartache in your characters that makes you unlike me
It's the lines of unattractive pain, the shadows in your dark
Just your voice makes me uncomfortable; that bite that's in your bark"
"You just write it as you think it", I was told in worried tone
"You think Hemingway just spat it out? That Frost was in some zone?
It's a blasphemy you're spouting here, the page is craft not art
and the sooner that you get on board, the sooner we can start!"
"Learn that King is but a peasant hack, and Ludlum just a snooze
And that Rawlings woman dips her pen in boring, tasteless schmooze
Why it's Shakespeare that we're after, think of Steinbeck, Poe or Twain
Go for Cordon Bleu or Sushi bar, not hot wings and chow mein!"
"See here, writing's mathematics; it's not special if it's fun
it should make you drink until you puke; live sexless as a nun
If you write four thousand words a day, then most go in the trash
It's the sweating blood, not love of words that conjures up the cash!"
I came home so disillusioned; here I'd thought my stuff was cool
I had never thought my streaming style the trademark of a fool
I just wanted him to like me, as a writer not a snack
now I can't believe how sad I feel, I want my morning back!
I must say right here I have no clue if spider has it right
that a fiction must be pounded out, not born of second sight
but I swear if that's the way it is, to write well means to work
Then I'd rather buzz my lightbulbs, I won't be a grammar clerk.