The Parasite

(Two Cantos)

There’s a man who lacks elegance. He is destructive at all times – always in a mood. The sun falls painfully on his face, his legs ache whenever they’re in use, his puffy stomach is bloated. The man has a serious disease, a parasite living inside his stomach.

Walking down the street on a sunny day, he catches the eye of a woman at her window, and it were as if lightning struck from below. She is infatuated in that moment, though the moment passes so quickly. She is not aware of it, in her mind she has seen nothing but a succession of moments, each one equally deserving of infatuation.

They meet, by chance, another time. The man is already old – older than he actually is. The parasite he has nourished is ready for his old age death, so it may crawl out the size of a small child and start its own life. It will wreak havoc, a little vampire with Juggernaut strength, bloated with thick black blood.

When the vampire is free, it takes up the man’s life, living to a certain extent as his double, even though he is small and illiterate. Everyone notices the difference but supplies their own explanation. The vampire does best in warm weather and struggles in the grim English winter. He grows a tail, the sprout of wings, and painful horns tearing through his skin. He celebrates the death of his master.

The vampire will insert its tongue into your ear, deep, until it reaches to lick your brain, an absolutely pleasurable feeling. He is one of his kind upon the Earth. Upon having your brain licked, you will succumb to endless shudders. The creature cannot reproduce or die. Having already fattened itself, it does nothing but provide the basest & highest of pleasures mixed into one.

Many heroes attempt to kill the vampire, which has caused extreme destruction through its distortive powers. As it is unslayable these efforts come to nought. One day, however, a woman chooses to insert her tongue deep into the demon’s ear, tickling its brain. The creature is driven mad by the pleasure & submits to the rule of law. It is chained up in a zoo and used to secrete various substances. From then on it features as a motif in art, frequently misunderstood, but iconographically powerful, like a gorgoneion or evil eye talisman. It is put down with a knife to the throat, and leaks black blood over the temple floor, travelling down to hell, while its body remains above on Earth, split open, a leaking red carcass.

*

Lately, I’ve not been able to produce any writing that’s worthwhile. I have 5 pages in this notebook left to do something. I’ve gone through the whole thing now – 2 months of writing; 200, 250 pages. Each page could be half a page in a standard novel.

The notebook might be cursed. I’ll be glad to be rid of it, in that case, though I do love its tough red cover & the postcards I’ve slipped in between the pages to mark blank spots where I can still write.

I have always handwritten my work. It gives me some respite & focus. My writing in this notebook may be more distracted than my standard fare. Distracted writing can never be good, writing is made good by prolonged focus.

I haven’t typed up my work in this notebook. Usually, I type up everything I handwrite & edit obsessively. I’ve left a number of stories to linger, incomplete & uncomfortable. Now I’m at the end, I am more conscious of the size of my lazy, sloppy words, which do not finish themselves. I have a duty to complete each thing. I will complete this notebook. Then, I will turn back & complete each thing I’ve written.

Under this red cover are moments of the most raw, passionate revelation, misguided, & misbegotten. I do not regularly doodle or bullet point. I write in prose. But there are sun spots all over: individual words that could not possibly be followed up on, elided endings where I’ve skipped half the page to signal a new beginning, a few lists of sentences that don’t exist. These are the blanks I must complete.

When I get a new one, I’ll get something black, with a ribbon to hold my place as before. I’ll fill it with postcards and stories, fill it up whole. I’ll fill up another 10, another 20, another 100. One day, I will have a wall just full of my notebooks, everything I have ever written, starting from when I was about 20 and scribbled my notes on David Lewis in little pocket books with cheesy covers. The last notebooks will be huge, sprawling, taking up whole shelves or tables for themselves.

My work is too scattershot, too sprawling and ignorant. It stretches out and relaxes its flabby belly and crumples paper under its elbows. It lacks elegance entirely.

The Monster, Odilon Redon