Talking About Melpomene

Look at yourself, old man. Buzzed yourself into insomnia. Worked up, fucked up. Forgot how that emotion brew feels? Two and a half years of emotional flat lining and you pick her to spike on? Good lesson for you then. Drink from the cup? Prepare to vomit and catch every last spill.

I see you, grinning, you cocksucker. Girl still packs the kick, no? You got that emotion cooking now, old friend. You sweating. Now you just sip that coffee, chain those smokes and vomit! Expel and rea-fucking-waken! You’ve drank again, from the Muse’s cup and now, god fuck you, vomit, reap all them fucking seeds!

You knew, you sad bastard, when she arrived and walked through your door, you knew then, didn’t you? The music didn’t play. The heavens didn’t part and spill forth joy and goodness. There was just that faint beat of voodoo drums she left in her wake and the sweat of other men upon her. You knew then, you old fool, that the flood is coming. You didn’t send her out, to wash off her filth before she lay with you, no, no, no, you reveled in that dirt, knowing full well the blow out that is coming.

And now, there you are, ODing on caffeine, tying cancer’s noose around you, tripping, harder than you have in years, on that thing you swore that you forgot. That thing that gutted you and mailed your carcass back across the ocean. That thing. What was its name? That pesky little cunt that you said will never trouble you again. Ah – Hurt, that’s what you called it.

Old friend, old friend, you’ve tasted it now again and the walls you’ve built around you crumble into supports and mounds of shit and the heart beats, tears and cries and the fingers dance on their own will. You love it, don’t you, fucking junky, just look at your teeth bared, that long-lost glint of Satan in your eye. You might be grizzled, wiser, but you are still a curbside jester.

And me? What of me? I’m here for kicks, to watch the hunger reemerge, it’s beautiful and I am, first and foremost, a great purveyor of the arts. Like a machine restarting, gears grind hard inside your brain, synapses lash, spit and reignite. Connections, either snapped by trauma or purposefully severed, are made whole. What’s not to like? What’s not to love? A thinking mind exploding once again! Look! Words flow! You’ve passed the doldrums, drink some more!

How many solutions, plots and stories did her arrival bring about tonight? Good gods, you’re salivating almost. You want to write them all right now! Keep writing till the light chews through the curtains! Keep writing while it hurts! You’re used, you know it, now break that apart, cannibalize, adapt and, finally, create!

A firing line of sadness is, as you’ll agree, a tiny price to pay for the returning of the craft.


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