the muse

there were good days
you were a muse for a poet
young and hungry for the inspiration
a seagul gliding over Madison Square Garden
above the sea of Rangers fans and wandering tourists

you were Erato
the sweet aperitif
of his early morning lacerations
when the dawn is young
and the skin is looking for a touch
(naivete)

Euterpe of the sizzling afternoons
of the middle aged man
you were drinking cabernet
while he was pouring lyrics
between the advertisements
in the motley magazines

last time I saw you
drunk Melpomene
dancing on the messy bed
mumbling gibberish

your mask was nailed to
your bedroom door
over polariod
of the modest obelisk

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s