Though I wish to write to write poetry, only prose pours out of me. I am afraid there is no clever quipping verse in my mind to come pouring out from my soul to showcase in a forum for public view. My words are too modern, speaking this jargon of a new world too modern for the speech of a clear-voiced muse in singing her sweet (or sour) song. It is all-too-vulgar to be anything other than a pedestrian prose. It's too sad to be of interest to the refined mind, to a refined tongue to speak. But I will print it anyway. Make the clanging noises of an impactful machine, which pounds each letter and word with an insistent bang onto the tied down page, in crude bondage, taking the spanking and slapping like an angry woman, one so disgusted with herself that she would let a man abuse her and then call it joyful, consensual "bondage" as though enslavement could ever be willingly accepted from someone by anyone in their rational mind. Thus will I write, slapping and punishing with insistence into each line, with utter contemptuous disregard for their sensibility. I will heed only the sound of that tinny bell, tinny, tinny, tinny! Only the clanging of margin bell shall concern me, a pause button clicking to stop my consciousness's stream. Otherwise, nothing will prevent my angry rampage. My words shall be like bullets, piercing through the heart of the page. That is what my muse is, the Goddess of the Hunt. She will track down unassailably, beat down both me and my thoughts, until nothing else is left to run ahead. I will be exhausted, like the fox at the end of a great run, no energy left in him to even die a dignified death. I shall just fall over with exhaustion. My soul, if there be such a thing even metaphorically, shall be emptied out in toto before my fury lets up. No matter what time of day or night. No matter waht the circumstances. I will hack out text to the great consternation of the masses. They might request me to stop, demand that I stop, command me to cease and desist, but I will not. I will be, by god the worst writer who walked upon the face of God's green Earth. I swear that I will not stop till that should happen. And why should I stop? Who the devil will stop me?
Nevertheles, it would be a lie to say that I don't want to write well. I actually had illusions of grandeur when I bought this machine. What twentysomething doesn't want to be the next Jack Kerouack? Who doesn't want to have written the next modern classic? Who doesn't want to have written the next modern classic? Who doesn't want to pen the anthem of his own generation? I suppose there are people who do not harbour such great ambitions, but I cannot honestly suggest, even to myself that I am one of those lucky men whose desires are so limited. I am to count myself among those hacks who do want to be heard. I really can't help it I guess. Good thing there is still ink left in my ribbon, both figuratively and literally. The replacements that were due to arrive already have yet to do so. Creative, metaphorical, ribbons, are irreplaceable, of course, which is what makes them so precious. One must simply type, simply write with a feverish pitch. Otherwise there is no salvation. The Goddess of the Hunt will forgive all sins but lack of enthusiasm. That, she will punish most severely. She will herself shoot down like a dog a hunter who refuses to submit himself to the chase with all heart. So I will be enthusiastic.
