Pure Slush

flash ... without the wank

The Social Life Of The Serious Writer

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by Marcus Speh      Birds  >

 (scroll below for links to other Serious Writer stories)

 


I
The serious writer makes money like other people fist fuck. He is a wild man, a beast, and a connoisseur, who spells French words forwards and backwards with ease. Most of all, he is serious.

The woman at the side of the serious writer is devoted to his cause, which he never clearly articulated to her. She is tall, but not too tall, a blonde who could, in the right light, be taken for a brunette. She has a black bushel of strong, willful pubic hair. When the serious writer needs serious stimulation, he grabs her patch down there and yanks it.

The serious writer knows about the fertile time shortly after waking up from a dream. His woman kicks him every half an hour to interrupt his REM cycle: he then gets up, creates, and goes back to sleep. Because of this arrangement, neither the serious writer nor the woman at the side of the serious writer can get enough rest.


II
The serious writer lifts his ideas like limp lychees from anywhere and anyone. Anything and anyone crossing his path becomes material. He turns silly stuff into junk and junk into art. The serious writer will defeat his demons and crush them under his ferocious foot purely by the power of observation.

The serious writer hardly writes. When he does write, he uses a glass quill and fifteen different kinds of ink. He creates without getting his hands dirty, a God in his own house.

At night, the serious writer eats steak and smokes bamboo stalks. He washes the day down with a glass of scotch. His bed is a wet concern at the bottom of an iron lake where he tells himself lies, ambivalence-stricken, looking for true feeling, alone now, a ferruginous plant, watered by the people in his life.


III
Two writers sat down for a meal, carefully avoiding any talk of their art. They shared stories of their wives and children, of cars to let loose on the fast lane, of tech gadgets to play with as only boys play, exploring all keys and functions. They mentioned their fathers in passing and how similar they had become to them. They had a laugh, and when the pretty waitress with the blond bun and the wide swinging hips appeared at their table, they flirted a little in tandem, kicking gallantries back and forth until the maiden culled one and appointed a winner of their innocent game, which made their three hearts beat faster for a bit and the food that showed up on their table the better. All the while, as they were enjoying a full glass of friendship, they were secretly spinning yarns like giddy spiders. When they parted, with a manly handshake and a hug for the road, each had a good tale to tell.

I

The serious writer makes money like other people fist fuck. He is a wild man, a beast, and a connoisseur, who spells French words forwards and backwards with ease. Most of all, he is serious.

The woman at the side of the serious writer is devoted to his cause, which he never clearly articulated to her. She is tall, but not too tall, a blonde who could, in the right light, be taken for a brunette. She has a black bushel of strong, willful pubic hair. When the serious writer needs serious stimulation, he grabs her patch down there and yanks it.

The serious writer knows about the fertile time shortly after waking up from a dream. His woman kicks him every half an hour to interrupt his REM cycle: he then gets up, creates, and goes back to sleep. Because of this arrangement, neither the serious writer nor the woman at the side of the serious writer can get enough rest.


II

The serious writer lifts his ideas like limp lychees from anywhere and anyone. Anything and anyone crossing his path becomes material. He turns silly stuff into junk and junk into art. The serious writer will defeat his demons and crush them under his ferocious foot purely by the power of observation. 

The serious writer hardly writes. When he does write, he uses a glass quill and fifteen different kinds of ink. He creates without getting his hands dirty, a God in his own house.

At night, the serious writer eats steak and smokes bamboo stalks. He washes the day down with a glass of scotch. His bed is a wet concern at the bottom of an iron lake where he tells himself lies, ambivalence-stricken, looking for true feeling, alone now, a ferruginous plant, watered by the people in his life.

 

III

Two writers sat down for a meal, carefully avoiding any talk of their art. They shared stories of their wives and children, of cars to let loose on the fast lane, of tech gadgets to play with as only boys play, exploring all keys and functions. They mentioned their fathers in passing and how similar they had become to them. They had a laugh, and when the pretty waitress with the blond bun and the wide swinging hips appeared at their table, they flirted a little in tandem, kicking gallantries back and forth until the maiden culled one and appointed a winner of their innocent game, which made their three hearts beat faster for a bit and the food that showed up on their table the better. All the while, as they were enjoying a full glass of friendship, they were secretly spinning yarns like giddy spiders. When they parted, with a manly handshake and a hug for the road, each had a good tale to tell.

 

published 10 October 2011

 

• The Serious Writer And His Mother

• The Serious Writer And His Hamster

• The Serious Writer Buys An iPad

The Serious Writer Cuddles Up