Horseman 3: A Man’s Addiction

Svelte stallion stolidly shouldering saddler

‘Tis the third horseman, riding from the West

‘Tis a horsewoman, if the truth must be confess’d

Charging through, neither last nor first

Draped in sunset, ensconced by oak

Bringing forth retribution that was fore-spoke

With a quill…

‘Tis @i_am_doxa

A MAN’S ADDICTION

I would marry you if I wasn’t already in love with your words. Those little, yet mighty pieces of magnet that attract my metallic soul to the depths of your mysterious soul, submerged in grief and depression. I would marry you so I can be the light to penetrate your darkness, the gentle rod to break through your walls of rock, creating streams of joy that will gush out words which will refresh my yearning soul like living waters. I’d teach you the true art of addiction, the craving of love and me, its human embodiment, able to fill up the void that yawns wide in your heart.

I would marry you so I can watch you commune with alcohol every night just like a drunken sailor. I will drink of every bitter truth emanating from your clueless lips, as I sail with you on open seas of love, propelled by the wind blowing from your mouth. Then one night when jealousy pushes me to the wall, I will hide every bottle that lies in your cellar, and lock you in, your car-keys finding rest in my bosom. When you’re sullen, I will uncleave your tongue from the roof of your mouth with mine, so that it can loosen under my influence, that we may quench our thirst with sweet truths.

I would marry you so you can listen to my voice every day, even more than you listen to your favourite rap artiste. I know little about rap but if you can deftly smear my face, earlobes and body with chocolate using your hot tongue, then I can definitely spit some sweltering bars. Words praising the dexterity of your hands will flow with more speed than Eminem’s, more brashness than 2Pac’s, more vulgarity than Lil Wayne’s, more sonority than Drake’s. My rhythmic prowess would make our hips hop. My moans would tell tales of your manhood, your raspy breath serving as the beat, each sound being recorded in the album of love that I will debut to the world. It will be a bestseller of course, making 604,800 hits every week, because you’ll be my faithful buyer every second of the day, every day of the week, all through the year. I would win Grammys all the time for your sake, an award for your virility.

“What do you see?”

I would marry you so I can plunge you into a field of hysteria and adrenaline-pumping expectations faster than your football players. I’d amaze you with the skill of every part of me, for Nature would be my only coach before the match. I would score multiple hat tricks as I cry out your name while we make love. I would tease you with my slow slides, and listen as your heart beat soars when I near the goalpost, and as pleasure spreads across your being when I score. But it’s just going to be you and I, no other teamplayer or opponent. No coach standing in the sidelines guiding our every move and ruining the peaceful moment with noise. Nature will only watch her children do her will, she will express her motherly pleasure through mild showers, serenading us with pitter-patters on our window panes, a love song more beautiful than Whitney Houston’s; or golden rays of sunlight awarding us for taking first place. Whatever the weather, we still would play. We, and no one else, would be our competition as our only aim would be to beat our previous records in love.

I would marry you if I wasn’t already in love with your words, and you in love with mine. I would marry you so we can resurrect the Dead Poets’ Society where you’ll rule imaginary subjects as king and I as queen, with words of justice and order proceeding from our lips, sharper than any double-edged sword. The only language we would speak is love. I would watch you as you bend low over midnight candles, writing sonnets, haikus, free verses and even poems of one hundred and forty characters. Then I’ll lull you to sleep and traverse the dreamworld with my ethereal voice as your compass. I’ll steal your pen from your ingenuously ingenious hands, and complete your unfinished poems with the other half of you awake in me, for “the two shall become one”. Our words shall never fight on paper nor will our ink smear each other for they shall be the same thoughts bearing upon our yoked spirits. And then when you wake up each morning with your completed poems staring into your face, you’ll sing of how blessed you are to have me over all those other things, after which you’ll scribble your gratitude on my body.

I would marry you so my immortality can rub off on your pen, so that her words about you and I will never die even when death parts us here on earth. She alone can never incite my jealousy for she is my friend, my accomplice, the amused onlooker who will write our biography. She is the only other thing permitted to share your addiction to me.

Inspired by Sizakele Phohleli’s “Dressed in Tattoos, Piercings and Cigarettes.”