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I want my writers to wear black

I Want My Writers To Wear Black

I want my writers to wear black. I want them to do that. I want them to fit into how I need to see them to read what they’ve written the way I do. And if they don’t do that I want them to lie. I want them to conform to it and tell me today it was a black turtleneck and slacks with a temperate belt. I want them to have black-rimmed glasses and never take pictures. And I want them to speak like I think they do, with their sounds coming low in the mouth cavity and deep.

Nothing reedy. They should have stubble always, as if each time they got up to prepare for the world they had a thought right then and it had to get down. I want them to keep late hours and early ones too. To be restless, hard of sleep. They should have two good dogs who match and never bark. I want them not to be eaters. I want their work to be hardcovered and undecorated and their libraries muddled with books tipping off shelves and stacked and so many that they don’t fit, that they have spread to the table tops and the floors piled 10 high until the balance goes and I want notes in the margins and yellowing I want loose leaf papers scribbled on in all directions with arrows leading to other tangents and writing like a madman that doesn’t curl in the tails.

I want them to write with straight js. I want them to smoke. I want grease in their hair that is overgrown and I want them to palm it off their foreheads in manic sweeps and I want it to stand up and waver and then fall to a side and I want it to be dark hair against any color skin. They should have brown eyes. I want wooden desks and brass in places and wooded floors. I want them dissatisfied with sole-worn shoes and they should hold an insistence on double doors. On private studies. I want them unsiblinged. I want them to come from trouble in the home. Cold fathers and worse mothers. Gone would be best. I want their memories to be mostly looking out windows on dead lawns and leaves, dead pets.

I want them to come from a place where all cars look like a hearse. I want the daylight to never hit them at noon. I want it to slant and scatter gold on their faces pallid from the indoors. I want them to find all lyrics useless and hate crowds. I want my writers bored at dinner parties and desirable to young girls. I want them oversexed and finding other things trifling. I want them unattached. I want their nails cut close and kept clean underneath. I want their hairlines thick and their bodies smooth. I want them never to cry. Instead I want them cleaved, cut through, unmendable. I want them to serve themselves up on platters, hollowed out, meat-fresh with the garnishing, fat-slathered, prettied up so that I can try it in small bites and make comments, feeding, pointing, saying yes yes, this reads nice.

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