This Bastard Pen by Andy Smith
this bastard pen. Leaks at will. Does nothing but spill. Ink and sanity – all the same.. Oh how I love its enthusiasm, however misguided. The squid in my grip. So desperate to spread its mark. Determined to stain like humanity to the Earth. Draining my spirit just the same. It renders me the hapless snake charmer, taunted by the bare page while I boast hands, blackened.
We used to get on famously, but somewhere along lost our way. A fine line it is between palm and page, scribe and splay. A clear communication breakdown, purpose now split and frayed.
Anywhere but the paper, like a twisted climate protest. “save the trees!” each seep of would-be substance screams as my skin it smears. Bleeding us dry, as the pact doth cry. Impotence has become the strong point.
It renders me rushing to scrawl the first nonsense my mind produces at all: A feeble attempt to seize control, marked with manic splurges usurping words.
Fragments of a skewed ego ferment the empty space. Swelling, my rage. Swimming against ink current. Skirmishing with my dearest friend; my greatest enemy – in the ilk of quarrelling teens. Caught in the throes of writers blot, insults stream jabs to tears. Sobering reconciliation washes over.
Truce embraced, in a palm of its own blood my dearest writhes as we seek to heal the wound. But by now, the brilliance that had mustered in my mind is a million miles away, and all I can do is grip the fist of dissent. Clutching my own doom ever tighter, leaking it further around me. Peace is a lie. It renders me one to wear my words; ink spills as my spirit stills. A chorus of weeps echo my pain.
Wading through, pressing on, with what remains I shall wri…
Andy Smith conjures up pieces of a wicked yet whimsical nature, reflective of the crass society he finds himself sorely stuck in, wielding words as the chosen weapon for change.
Photo – Andy Smith
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