Everything bleeds here, from trees through to bodies, in this wonderful, horrible, story-filled forest. With Blood underfoot and with pus overhead, it’s a place of the stickiest, sappiest red.
But in fact it’s a place where your suffering’s good; for all pain is a virtue right here in Bloodwood. Here all murders and meltdowns are forms of release, our anxiety’s why there’s a calming, a peace.
We will write of our life or imagine, invent – all the hues, black and white, accidental or meant. All the stuff from the past and the words from folks’ heads, whether rough or perfected we’ll curl up in bed with their books, writ in blood, as the best horrors are – as ink pours itself in to each page, verse and bar…for their words they are songs and we dance to their tune, on a dry crispy morning or damp afternoon.
For a book’s more than paper to writers, you see – for what’s paper but wasted and shaven old trees?
It’s the words that are us and as WE are the words, well – watch life turn to dust as we make your blood curdle.
We will kill and we’ll scar and let battle commence as we can’t go too far, we can’t stay on that fence
There’s no line any more as we’ve already crossed it, inhibition’s a bore
– out the window we’ve tossed it
And dear readers, for you, writing’s never a bother
It’s no chore to explore this Bloodwood filled with horror
So whatever you read, or whatever you write
Have a wonderful time with your stories tonight.