4 of 31. Muses on a Sick Day

I’ve read Rimbaud

and loved the wild lover young with full women’s hips and flush mouths always at his pen.

Always wanting to begin with a deficit of sleep and food,  I am learning to come to the paper

full

instead of desperate.

If Creeley,

who is always talking,

can repaint portraits with his pen

and write about painters in straightforward

prose,

who should keep me from wanting to

study?

Even Kerouac went to school.

This Thera Flu

has made a tadpole out of me.

If I close my eyes I can see the mouth

of reason

talking me out of a fish tank.

Picasso and Stein

loved each other

by painting

and writing

and painting

and writing

one another

until the subject was satisfied

with the exact spreading of

difference.

Who told me to come like this?

My head is full of sloshiness,

My hips are full of writing.

I’m sure,

if Hemingway could tell me something,

it would be to transcribe this

and keep

writing.

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About amyleighcutler

Writer, dancer, vagabond extraordinaire
This entry was posted in 30 in 30, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

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