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The Muse Split
by David Matthews

The muse split, man
Like, she was with me
Pale and fair as a damsel out of Keats
So hip she could step into a Lou Reed lyric and not miss a beat

I blinked
And she vaporized
Or something
Not a sign remained
Not even her beret
Or those black tights
That really kind of do it for me
When she murmurs
Sweet pentameters
In a chanteuse voice
That pours light through a wind
Blown off the dark Mediterranean
From five centuries ago

What happened
I let the wage slavery beat me down
She would not put up with that
It was steady income
And gainful employment
That drove her underground

Left to my own dubious devices,
I ventured out
Through the boulevards
And alleyways of verse
High on Surrealism
I gave myself over
To chance encounters
With sewing machines and umbrellas
Subway trains and illuminated manuscripts
Miss America, Mary Shelley, and the ghost of Gregory Corso...

In cramped quarters of rented rooms,
I trafficked in trope
Handcuffed to the bare page
As if the fierceness of my gaze
Alone might transport me
To whatever paradise
We mujahedeen of poetry
Are apt to know
The paradise we make or accept
Through each act of love
That brings vision
Into this life the life of each of us

Comments

Enjoyed.

oh yeah - helps me understand why it's been more difficult to write - nicely done, David

David, (don't know whether or not it was supposed to be, BUT...) this is SO Rock 'N' Roll, it hurts! Really, this is one part Beat and one part Urban Slam and another part Stream of Consciousness... VERY nice work! Loved reading it!

Enjoyed this in particular:

"Left to my own dubious devices,
I ventured out
Through the boulevards
And alleyways of verse
High on Surrealism
I gave myself over
To chance encounters
With sewing machines and umbrellas
Subway trains and illuminated manuscripts
Miss America, Mary Shelley, and the ghost of Gregory Corso..."

Great stuff!

Joseph, I didn't conceive it in those terms but definitely appreciate the thought. Thanks.

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