[MD] A Meditation on Metaphor - part 3

[MarshaV]

And what of the fact that death dwells inside the metaphor, inside the erotic ecstasy which it instances?  I cannot write another word before I pause to confess this.  As I pursue the idea of love, the idea of metaphor, suffering is building up inside of me hideously.  Brick on brick, I sense it particularly in a constriction of the chest and in the tear ducts starting to well.  I weep very easily, I seep, I suffer easily.  There is no humiliation in this, perhaps, but it is the case.  In any case, though I write in joy, out of sheer extravagant pleasure, yet who cares, who will eat my words like a spoonful of honey?  Nobody will, because my writing doesn't know how to attach to a system, nor can it create a system as Blake said he needed to do or be a slave to another man's, it is too feeble.  Nor is my writing beautiful enough to overwhelm your resistance, reader, like a woman's perfume or the silk of a complexion.  As to my loves in real life, or "real life," which of them has not failed .  Stupidly.
 
I do not deny that the inability of love to sustain love is a foregone conclusion, but still it's a stupidity.  Not to be able to go on, get further into, stay aroused, stay erected.  I am easily bored myself and consider this a weakness.  Did you know this about me?  Yes, sometimes you bore me already, the very first time we make love, perhaps because you think you are "having" me, or because you think I want you rather than the fire inside you, the fountain, or you mistake my generous body for your mother's.  You, reader, do not sufficiently value love itself.  Besides, reader, admit it, you don't love me.  The more I humiliate myself by begging for your love, even a glance of affection, even your hand lifted to touch my hair or rest a moment on my moist hand, even a phone call, the more I repel you.  At best you pity me, my neediness is disgusting, you take no responsibility for having to reduced me to the state of grease on a plate.  Nor should you.  Garbage is garbage.  There is no way you can admit to seeing, in me, the eternal dancing fire.
 
It is too fearful.  So you turn a stone shoulder to me, reader, lover.  You stiffen your neck with contempt.  Let blandness fill your eyes.  Check your watch.  Your datebook and appointments.  Your fingernails.  As to your own fire, let me hiss this at you, as I stare up through my coffin lid, my worms and my impacted dirt, the small chains of pebbles, the tough web of grassroots, the waving grassblades, my neglected writing --- I am uncertain if a fire continues to blaze secretly in your heart, reader, lover, or if it has long been extinguished.    
 
 
  

 
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