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A blank page accuses drily & I leap defensively into the breach to slam my nib down & the blank fills with etch. The walls echo punctuation's punch & the crossing & dottings of t's & i's & the wiry hook of commas & the apostrophe's curl & my thoughts are echoed in the etch. This thought is mirrored & echoed in the etch; This slow, painful, cautious, relentless push of thought reflects & reverbrates & drags along with it a reflex of synaptic derivatives that find a new truth in the etch. This pulsating, driving, impatient shunt of wordsmith's hammering drags and pushes a rhythmic sorting of its iambic saxon flow into the canon of evolved thought. It slams its freight of phrase into the fray of brain-stretch that struggles for sense in the black-rooted echoes of the etch. I shall etch you an etching worn to the bone I'll write it on tablets & carve it in stone then I'll rub you a copy or read you my poem; then you'll etch me an etching worn to the bone. Tell me a story. Write me a poem. |
