A poet eats poetically. She eats pages of poems. She chews pages of poems. She burps poetically. Before she becomes a hardcore poet, she must purge her wastes and forget everything but poetry. Her body is scarred with words and signs and texts. She cannot buy poems in a convenience store so she cooks poems and have them for dinner. Sometimes, she eats them at breakfast. She is a hungry, fat poet. And poetry is poisoning her until she romantically vomits poems on the dining table.
Once upon a time, a penis was born. He was a sad little penis and he could not talk nor snore. He could only write words on the sheets of his mind. But every time a white liquid bursts out of his body, [that he thought was just pure shit] he realized that thinking too much is too messy. Yeah, messy but it tempted him to do it all over again. He was a writer after all and he was not just a crazy little penis waiting to be just inserted in someone else’s hole. he was something else.
To be a writer is to masturbate. You cannot masturbate out of nothing, thus, you cannot write out of nothing at all. When I write, I stain lost pages, I drink the elixir of life. I understand deaths, half deaths, senseless deaths. I write pains because it is only in those sheets that they can get stained, and sooner they will no longer inhabit my head. I write based on how i see the world and how he world wanted me to see itself. I become a writer when there is enough reason for madness and temptations to hate and to love.
I practice masturbation. I practice writing in my mind and let them crawl in the tip of my fingernails. I form cobwebs in my papers. I do not want to write when i have positive feelings because they kill my pain to write. I listen to music, those songs that had images that reflect emotions.
And so most of my poems ejaculated out of rage and seductions of pain and bleeding heads. I am mesmerized by the idea of forming relationships and losing them at the same time. I want to understand how they die in their own beds, shirts, bellies and hands. Most of my speakers are ordinary women struggling in the world of their own relationships. I find my theme common and so in any possible way, I want to explore every fiber of a relationship to taste them fully in my own mouth.
And to that, may I live forever.
I am a conquistador. I travel every space, every hole, on every page, make love with words, lines and curves. Writing is my secret conquest. Poetry is pure seduction – a divine madness.
I am formed by fragments. I am a fragment. My tongue tastes poetry, bitter and sweet. And when words are moved around the pages, I feel sovereign. Writers are gods but readers remain the highest gods. I lust for gods. I rage wars. I want to be Jean Claude Van Damme: I want to sweat and fight. Let the mourning end. I conquer gods.
The only thing that keeps a writer alive is his or her insanity. Insanity carries no restrictions. I want to write naked under the moonlight for my soul to wander in the cold night, finally, to digress. I believe one should write and grow, grow and write. Sanity is boring, thoughtless and dreadful. Sanity is a writer’s enemy. It stops growth, it steals thoughts. Sane people only write pretensions, of the things they thought they know.
I want to write naked because only then can I become real, more natural. I do not hide and pretend, I write and offer every part of my self. And so each day, I become like the Aztecs. I become a human and a god. I sacrifice to please my gods because writing is always a sacrificial ceremony. I am writing naked. The hardest thing is to get naked in front of mere strangers, to get real with them, exposing the scars I never wanted to reveal.
The writer becomes a mother and the readers her children, sucking milk from her breasts until they began to explore every part of her that they can suck. And she becomes an open commodity and she forgets she still owns herself. This is what sacrifice is, selfless. We offer ourselves to die and live again only to understand writing, to give justice to our readers as we give justice to ourselves. Once, I read a book which I found offensive and degrading. It was merely a book full of shit and I realized I spent my precious time reading shit. Shit doesn’t just happen, they are made, written. The writer of that book is a criminal; she must be convicted because she was only inflicting a crime upon her readers. If we write without our best intentions, we are provoking suicide. Writing is a matter of life and death. When we refuse to give justice to our artistic vision, then we must face death.
Faith is not just about gods and religion. Faith is poetry. A poet has to have faith in her skill because only with faith can a poet achieve great poetry. With faith, there is an urge to experiment with words and lines and thoughts. Fear must not nestle inside the poet’s head because it blocks the growth of imagination.
Faith becomes the poison against fear. Faith is the resurrection of the poet from loss and death. A poet experiences “loss” when her imagination stops, and eventually “dies” when she stops being a poet. With faith, the poet is “resurrected.” She gets up after being “dead” and having been “buried” underground, like a vampire who slept underground listening to mortals, she feeds on her victims. A poet feeds on life, death, words, imagination, finally, poetry. A faith that death is not final but only a dark sleep is a faith that explains the idea of resurrection. She comes to life and remembers being a poet again.