Vignette – The Power of Words


The youth had mastered the power of words. He wrote with such finery and effect, so that his words could do anything. As a delinquent, he wrote stories within magnetic encryption about slivers and worms. They crawled off his pen into tumblers and found their ways into the heart of locks and nestled. The sentence serpents devoured the sounds that they could hear until they grew into monstrous leviathans, and shattered the tumblers. The word serpents found their way through any locked door to the treasure within the labyrinth.

He used words that would seep beneath the maiden’s skin, find a way under layers, cause the heart to beat faster, such voluptuous words that would increase and repeat their intensity, faster faster, talking of opening petals and pendulums, applying words that are deep and correspond with the root chakra. The word serpents would enter through orifices like incubi and wrap around essential kundalini, changing colour from red to orange to yellow to green to blue to indigo to violet.

Sounds corresponded with words, starting in low baritone and resounding from the ground in sub bass frequencies that only the denizens of the underworld and soil hear. They gained in pitch and hertz, splintering glass and destroying insects with banshee-like screech, rocketing out of the crown chakra of the screaming bodies rock hard orgasms.

Pairs shake at the highest frequency with wave after wave, held like a pillar suspended between earth and sky with words power, until they gently rest to earth with words of peace and slumber that coo gently, kissing softly, words wrapping warm in their enfolding grasp like tentacle-like pillows of the softest cashmere, lullabies drifting like messengers of sleep.


He met a woman who could match him word for word, a fiercely independent woman who gave him back that sex, seduced him into falling in love with her with with her full curvaceous words that were passionate of roses and thorns. She then rejected his words advances, always had the antidote and a return question that created a polar energy that he had to imitate or be frozen.

That succubus muse, how devilishly she flourishes her feathered pen and then throws it through a man’s brain to use the blood as ink in her comedy sonnets of the stupidity of men. These gullible men think they hold the pen like a sword better then amazons crafted in outer space laboratories, but are not reading deeply enough of their own work.

Her retorts formed a sludgy plasma that formed over his unsuspecting heart, a toxin that got him oh so high, that he needed to write to her or about her daily. He had to make a sacrifice to this modern day Demeter wearing the necklace of severed heads of men she has seduced, he must write or the plasm would be gone. Then she walked away, writing her words, and when that door slammed, it resonated through the chain of words, through those sentences of questions unanswered, through all those moments spent laughing, walking, murmuring in the dark together.

The BANG of the door dropped the word chain temperature past absolute zero, they froze the plasma encasing the young poets heart and then EXPLODED, smashing the poets heart to mud of that elixir he became dependent of, which dripped through floorboards as an acidic compound which made the earth shriek in indignation at such a creation.


The heartless poet became a murderer. He devised sentences to bludgeon and strangle, ones that could enter on a persons breath and then blossom and attach as viral suction caps to the lungs and other internal organs. With a simple change of grammatical structure, he would make the sentences harden and sharpen until they grew barbs and hooks, slicing a persons inside like a circular saw until they became a puddle of indescribable gore.

Blood. Cut. Slice. Vitriol. Madness. Death.

These were the lessons he learnt from her, he felt that because she took away his heart, he could take away lives as his due. She saw this and was sad at the havoc she unintentionally created. She tried to implore him to stop, but he pushed and her head hit the wall behind and cried. She died.

The sound that came from her mouth with her last breath constituted no real words, but a sound that when he wrote it on paper filled his heart again, that made him made him realize all the terrible things he had done out of possession of jealousy, words forged to obtain her against her will.

The sound and word told him of houses and animals that function autonomously, that when humans seek to possess them and their environment for their own consumption and greedy ends, that they pollute the world and kill innocent creatures.

This realization made his new heart fail, he curled up on the grave of the muse and sung a song that went to the very core of the earth, a song of failed romance that gives the oceans life, that makes our harvested food taste sweet, something that gives our earth and us humans the vitality that we need to continue.


The earth enfolded his body and took him into its biological secrets of frequency, organic matter decaying and revitalizing new life, nothing is separate, it’s all the same thing that you are, I am, we are. True words like this are the culture that feeds our bacteria to create.

These words are love, these words are us, these are words to live by, these are words to die by.

See that guy there with the strained smile and sad eyes? See what he does. He likes going around and shooting barbs out of his mouth. These barbs, they are invisible, but their impact is tangible, they make people convulse when they enter the skin. He measures and analyses their effect, but all he really likes to do is see that he can have an effect with words, he likes this idea that he can make people change and mutate with the coats of plasma that each of the darts are imbibed with.

What disaster do you form in your consonants and vowels? When will you realise your own vocabulary and arsenal for love and war?


Authoring and Images by Kristian Hatton


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