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.