Here are the magic marks on the white paper – the white paper, oh, can't you just smell it, clean as love and can't you feel that folding texture under your avaricious hand; new paper, beautiful paper, crushed from rags and trees still hinting at fibrous resistance – those convoluted ciphers march across the snowy blank black as the heavy hair of geisha waiting to speak, dumb with professionally adoring anticipation of our wishes.


The facility with words is a whore's kiss, never for sale, seldom bestowed and never on punters hot and sweaty with desire. Words are the Sign and signal the cherry-blossom fate, the inky absolution. Communication by indication, the shivering shamanic two-step: first comes the thought, electrically transmitted to our quivering headmeat, then comes – the word.

You can't kill a ghost, baby, and words never, like, lived save in our alchemical invention, gifted to us by the brilliance of our magic monkey-minds; you can't re-invent the absolute and nothing defines us better than those arcane shapes dancing trip-wise into our synapses, filling our fragile receptacle souls with short, sharp hits of delirious joy or that dark darling dream, suicide. The treading measure of the day is caught in bead-strung words glittering like jet, like obsidian sharp as glass knives, cutting bloodlessly parting our willing flesh into braided excoriations, or soft as the nacreous featherweight caress of rosy angels breathing amber and sandalwood of Mysore over our eager eyes that eat like mouths desperate and sick with hunger for the words that live longer than our bone-rack bodies ever could: You will die, dear Reader, but this will not. I will die, dear translator of my inky signals, but this. Will. Not.

The word is not dead; we are still breathing. While we breathe, we speak, while we speak the word is our weapon, the lance, the arrow, the Kalashnikov, the scalpel and the bloody bludgeon. The word is our procreative thrust into the future of our predatory species. It is our only chance of trapping peace.

The word is a salty kiss snatched from our lips by the breath of our passage through this vast and stormy sea, sisteren and bretheren.

The word is.

Joolz is now a Patron of the charity IDAS - a practical, grassroots organisation helping anyone who is a victim of sexual violence in the North of England.

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