Two-hundred and Forty-seven: Show Me Who Your Muses Are and I’ll Tell You Who You Are

I played hopscotch with the squashed figs by the side of the road until it rained.
The drops tasted like Plath’s tears. I vowed to name a cat Sylvia one day.
Thoughts swarmed like de Berniere’s imagery, only not as sweet.
I smoked a Bukowski number of cigarettes.

Later someone said, ‘What’s the story of your life?’
and I handed him my favourite books and said,
“It’s already been written.”

In the dark, after Leonard and Nina had been put to bed,
I dreamed of giving Jeff head. He sang when he came.

Sometimes I sleep upside down and it feels so much better
and then I am scared because
everything always feels better to me when it’s upside down.

You know, her eyes are pretty but blank. Like hollow Modigliani blues.
But everyone wants to love her anyway.
I wish my life was Klimt’s golden hair in The Kiss every day.
Today I was an isolated character in a Hopper
and I loved it.

Sometimes I convince myself I exist only in books and music and art.

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Published by

Alexia

I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

5 thoughts on “Two-hundred and Forty-seven: Show Me Who Your Muses Are and I’ll Tell You Who You Are”

  1. omg omg omg, ok, so we are OFFICIALLY connected by the universe. Why, you ask?

    1. Everyone should have at least 1 muse.
    2. I love Bukowski but he’s been overplayed online.
    3. I will listen to/am listening to Nina Simone in my head.
    4. For the painting to hang over my fireplace, I want Klimt’s the Kiss, or something ALOT like it. Where can I find it?
    5. If I didn’t write my blog, or didn’t listen to music, or didn’t read books, I would be alive, but would I be living?

    OK, now imagine all these thoughts on repeat in my head. All. Day. Long.

    And then I see your post.

    Ah, universe, you’ve struck again.

  2. At the risk of sounding like an American socialite: shut up!
    I agree fully with 1 and 2.
    Nina Simone is always in my head.
    Have you seen The Kiss in real life? It’s divine. I’ve lost my poster of it. Curses.
    I feel like, without art, I don’t really exist.

    Finally, Universe… the ultimate muse. We absolutely need to have an evening dedicated to her magic again very, very soon.
    I am so serious about this that I am going to write it to you on Facebook as well. (Facebook= the epitome of seriousness.)

  3. Plath is horribly depressing though. I’d like to read more of her, if not for the fact that I can relate to what she writes and it opens up like this scary gaping hole right in the middle of my chest :-/

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