Frustration at the Absence of a Muse

I’m picking at the skin above my heart,
flesh from science and recreation
and witty retrievals of references
from a sewer pot of genes
and plasma. Drowning in cut off sentences:
I see my soul in the clouds,
where I cannot touch him,
a limerick coloured helium
by specks of a chemical blue.
Watch my world spin without me;
inside, I wander off the page –
the physical and metaphorical slices, all rough
between a cage of mottled beige.

Love was like the missing element
And I think we forgot that gravity
Takes two orbits to fall
And one to smash.

The moon’s hue douses its craters,
but they’re present if one looks
at them through slanted eyes. I’ve seen
a dozen fake universes through
two peepholes,
but none whisk me again to the source of the sky.
Or its craters harrowing into the
real cartilage and keratin.
Maybe an answer will bite
when he descends the stratospheric wonderland –
else some kind of soulless immaterialisation.
Poetry has clusters like petals,
the spring snow is buds of fuchsia,
warmth an embrace from behind curtains –
Yet, I carry no desire
in my empty shell. How far can i
reach beyond the mortal edges
of my fingertips?

The End

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