Slave ?

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She is wholly mine

To command,

To define;

She wouldn’t have it any other way.

When I take her

– My time, my place – she

Responds, so fantasy-easy and willing,

To my every whim: heavy restraint, whip,

Silken hood, smeared with honey,

Blindfolded, costumed.

She mews, smiles; in turns quiet,

Banshee, submissive, giving.

Whatever I would she takes it,

Makes it wholesome.

She will never forsake …

Who am I fooling?

She is my sometime April muse

And will soon be gone like

May morn frosts.

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Iron Frustration.

 

Been away. Not travelling; just absent. Been away. Again. But this time my feet stayed in the same place. My muse went away. Again. Was it my fault? Of course … but I guess she needs space too, to visit her own sources of inspiration. Away.

While I dallied, uselessly, and useless, between weak guitar runs and wet days that leaked bad energies. Nothing came. Nothing came out right. Again.

Did it ever?

Been surrounded by books, often my favourite company. New stories, plots, characters, facts, you’re a reader you know what I’m saying … but everything was going in,

in,

in,

in:

no sparks, no fires being set off, no leaps of disjointed thingummywhatsit coming together.

No bl”%*y writing!

Couldn’t see the thoughts for the iron?

The phases of the moon … which was honey when it should have been bone?

Bad karma, not enough sleep, not enough you know what else, too much this, too many that … and introspection never pays the going rate.

I smile to think it, but patience is over-rated, just sometimes has to be enough.

Image:imperomedia.com

 

Tell Me You Knew Him …

 

Where went he then,

This big-hearted troubadour knight?

Where went he in the times he was away?

Away from us, our tribe, our ken?

Which astral, other-world spaces did he ride,

This minstrel warrior

Who wrote the starlight words,

Stories of elf and rainbow worlds; Continue reading

Murder’s Professor

Fierce-proud crow-piper am I

On Prospero’s good-wind, miller days,

Born of winter raven-burn,

Murder’s elegant professor,

Confessor to fictions.

Continue reading

In The Old Plot Today

Nothing new in the old plot today:

No warmth, no awe, no sprouts;

Nothing at all in

The dawn-gold orchard,

The ladder-high skies,

The dumb-today rock.

 “Nothing will of nothing come…”

Is the whisper in my ear.

Nothing, indeed, from the

Dumb-today rock, the

Quiet, silver peaches of the moon.

Some days my elusive muse

Is a moody bitch-goddess vampire.

Sometimes I just don’t care.

9/4/2013