|Posted by Mark Cantrell on January 24, 2015 at 7:00 PM|
A Kind Of Prose Poem
By Mark Cantrell
THE words are out there somewhere. They hide like sinister malignancies in the shades of the mind, lurking, until the moment comes to strike.
Then, after the months of hunting and searching, when the author has finally given up in despair, they gush screaming from the void to bore into the victim's brain.
And in that terrible moment, the author realises they are not the divine graces of imagination, but mutant and snarling things reaching for the very interstices of mind.
Once they have forced their way inside, they tear and pull at the synapses with a bestial and primal urge to ooze ectoplasmic flesh upon the page.
The author has discovered the terror of knowledge: that the writer is not the predator, but the prey. And that the Muse is no dancing nymph, but something warped and twisted from dimensions as yet unfathomed.
No wonder authors are mad. For they venture into places beyond the ken of the cosmologist, where all the logic of the commonplace collapses into the waveforms of eternity.
There is found and breached the event horizon of sanity.
And the Things that lurk there beyond the breach, flood into our world through that raging portal in an author's tortured mind...
8 June 2004
Copyright (C) June 2004. All Rights Reserved.