Gone Muse

My muse has gone away,
Leaving me to say:
I miss her whispered touch
On what had meant so much;
I miss her kiss of proof
On what I felt was truth;
But, most of all I miss
How she healed blame with bliss.

Did she, with this bit of verse, just sneak back in the back door?
She shies away and must be courted.
Fragile, she must be supported.
Sensitive, she waits the time
When mundane can meet sublime.

My muse is the best muse there is.

(The one on the left.)

After she touched me seductively on my chin, I can’t get her out of my mind.

Is it true, that many videogame artists, have boy muses? This doesnt mean that all gamers are actually homosexual, but in my opinion, mario, dukenukem, megaman, sonic, etc. are boymuses which cause fangames to be made.

Glad to hear your muse still comes around. Mine is on vacation from the exacting nature of life itself.

I think most muses are homosexual, bisexual and heterosexual, and asexual, it’s what they get used to.
Simply, said, let’s say it’s admitted that pre and post adolescent behavior of extending social interaction
to and within exclusively among boy to boy, and let’s say their mom muse is kind of unkind, flaggelatangly emasculating key, overwhelmingly so.

And let’s say papa is rolling stone, never home, couldn’t care less. So the muse sitting on thekid’s shoulder will not see an entry hole, a way not to get rejected. So the kid ends up in a gay bar one day to make friends and to escape the valid futility of incessant dating, - buying impressive cars-, getting flunky jobs to pay for it, and thinks it’s a lot easier to go into a gay bar, overcome societal silly prejudices: play a few games of pool, and bed down, or make it in the back room.

Then to please dad, go out with the girl next door, and write a few pieces of odd poetry, -not the likes of the hero out of suddenly last summer, who wrote a one liner every summer, only to have the hunter be captured and devoured by the prey kind of thing, but more like scintillating underground formless Demi gods inshadows, fantasizing about what if I were him the ideal superman, the thin nerd cum the new kid in town. What if the underground of the imagination
Phoenix like out of the box spurts, and with it the Muse, the superego on its wings the infantile Diego, Idego, carrying the infant in its clutches, dreamlike,
Eckankar like traveling in a dreamlike tapestry.
But the kid bows to convention the dream shatters, he knows no, feels, another an cannot love him, he seeks order, and needs re-entry into the cavern from whence the coming darkness beckons, he needs the anthethesis for his existence, the return eternal, he needs to make periodic deposits into the fertile ground of new differences, where his break from echo’s punishment narcissus so longed literally to severe;

He needs the judgement of Paris to be real, he needs to pro-create his own visage, as not mistaken for that of another, his dad, the dominatrix, whom he so loved, but abandoned by him, into eternal Elysian Fields.

My father was a fundamentalist preacher. My mother was into the paranormal, into white witchcraft. She said of him that he only saw black and white–no shades of gray; yet he tolerated her mystical aspirations and experiences. He wrote texts for sermons; she wrote poetry. He was into music; she was into art.
So, if my muse is part of my inheritance from my parent’s genes, I have become one who struggles between belief in cold, hard fact and mystical experiences. When both my parents died my music and poetry seemed to have lost their inspiration. My beloved mentor, who kept my poetry alive, died in 2006. For the past ten years I’ve winged it, feeling lucky to get at least one decent poem out per year. In order to jumpstart my muse, I posted 90 verses on a poetry site. Only a few of the poems were current. Perhaps I should pray to my mother’s and my mentor’s spirits to send me the inspiration to write a decent poem, not one of maudlin self-pity, but one of hope. I’m not dead yet!!!

Father–why did you leave me
With thoughts that only grieve me?
Mother–why did you depart
And leave me poems and art?
Maybe my son will know;
His art and music glow!
Genetic chains unwind
Into heart and mind.

The son knows, for sure, but that kind of knowledge ,predictably will bring him nothing but trouble, alas!

But can’t trouble act as incentive for creating something beautiful?

In that realm acting does not differ from a sense of beauty. The dramatics personae simply wear as many masks/hats, as appeasement.

The original sin balances with the sins of our fathers, as a consequence, and/or vica-versa.

I don’t believe in original sin or inherited sin. Where would this leave free will?

Another balance between free will and determined original sin.
Karma constrains freedom of choice somewhat.

Chameleon. Fate changes its colors with environment.

Under the colors the real phantom events pass on, visible and invisible , rigid and fluid , passing and eternal. The son seed this early , but the father beats it out of him so as to prevent him from becoming a dreamer or a poet

I encourage my son to be a dreamer–musician, artist, poet. Genetics doesn’t seem to hold him back. He has strong genes from his mother’s side of the family. Given my own often Saturnine temperament, I can only encourage him to dream.

Since my parents death, I have noticed myself become less patient, more cynical and angrier with life.

You are fortunate to be able to be altruistic. Most fathers are constricted with pre-existing classical conditioning from the sin of their fathers, raising their sons as they father had done to them.

Some are even possessively, jealously, hold their offspring down, while they are trying to live within their own purgatory.

They were never given a chance, they would loose the esteem of their progeny.

But it’s fairly typical, I know a guy, a friend of mine, who I have lost track of a while back, with similar concerns, he gave the shirt off his back to his daughter, who like her mom was conniving and inscrutable, she went through college manga cum laude, became an attorney-nurse, then to boot got a Ph.D. In public health, and now teaches at a prestigious college.

Whenever the three of them get together, mom, dad, and daughter, the disdain is obvious, and some little trinkets of derogatory subtle crease formed in that sweet-child -meaning, pops you do not measure up.

Mom has gone through several men since, and goes to town, but she has a fragility like the daughter, a weak spot, for which any man would travel through the underground for.

The other friends, husbands and lovers are stored like briquettes in a dark and damp place.

Well thinking, the guy must be out of the shop, or something, got to talk, here and there, and found his despair is within deep caverns worse, below the 7th hell, and found that, the only redemption in the Wagnerian sense still available to him, is to give, give, give, even that which has weighed him down at the brink of the fiery hole, all his life.

In fact the two gals, he told me once while sipping on absinthe, were his only redemption, the Maximus minimum of taking the very last breaths continually, between bouts of panicke ridden yogic attempts to self rescuciate.

Now, he said, 'I am relieved when one of the other male friends show up, cause, I see then she lightens up, happy again, chatty, as when she was the little girl he married. It’s worth it to see that on her face, the venomous vanity a long ago phantom of the past.

It could have been a boy, he says, but then, things would have been a lot more difficult, every bit harder,yes, yes, yes.

I tell him you could have salvaged him, in any case, gathering all the supposed insight you could have, should have had.

Meanwhile him and her are chatting away like some skylarks, he obviously inflicting poisoned words into it, meant for him, such as, ’ when will you call 911, glancing at him, as if his token effort to pretend that such self reference was not meant for him, but Oh, such false supplication, as he drew his hands together in a gesture of praying to his higher powers.

She could have been a boy, he lips end poy instead, for half his teeth were missing, he could have been.
He could have been that golden boy, the one who loved me most.

Now he is gone, got drunk one damned God foresaken night, got drunk, hit a tree.

And they chatted through the night, he pretending not to listen in, as their words got harsher, louder,
and a little more desperate.

See, he was telling her, there is always a way out, even insanity has a function, a charm in life.

The son, made into his image, has to go through treacherous Hayward, and byways, before he can get through the straight and narrow, of this damned rocky road.

He could not measure up to his older sis, she was brainy and cutting, his male ego was fractured, early, and when he saw dear old dad almost made it, but could not , when he realized the price of the pitiful journey can only be a solitary one, he panicked. But good old dad was preoccupied, trying still to reach the light at the end of the tunnel, to heed a need.

The muse never came then, and even now this need to script only eating at his entrails, not even for gross consumption, but well knowing it must lead him out of the vapid freezing maze, not unlike the maze in The Shining, but the haunt was different in kind, consisting in a failure not to re-press.

I haven’t seen my friend, my only friend for many years, now, and though tried to trace his whereabouts, even hiring a private detective, developed the feeling he was on the run.

He is free though, and his running, maybe not real, but caused by an inward journey through successive and gradual detachment and good will.

Sometimes, hoping the Muse will return for him, as he knew IT will, and against all odds, even at the cost of giving up all treasures, as He who was promised all, and declined. But if that is all that takes, to forgoe the glitter , then be it, only to pursue a hidden God, a silence to be heard only in the depths of the deepest fountain of betrayal.

You are a lucky man, Irrellus, lucky indeed.

Emotional bonds are like finely woven strains of Golden Fleece, fragile, ,brittle like angel’s hair on a long ago fern, hiding the many many colors which oh so gently hid all the night terrors up ahead.

Indeed, Ierrellus is a fortunate man.