The Invocation of the Muses: a choral piece

The Invocation of the Muses

A Petition to Zeus the Cloud Gatherer’s Nine Daughters

 

 

Before another foul smudge of ink…the end:

One must beg graces
from that of the Nurses.
Nursing sick,
unwell strangers back
from the dread
which one may present as certain
at time of death,
a bamboo bridge in

the Mekong Valley

but before i go please for fucks sake, right?

Once dead:
heavy moments begin post – detonation; handing vehicle to island is possible,

no more.

…then passing left, now of course.
Scripts of fly vomit land at the new generation’s door.  Step child-like-baggage and more.

Egyptian spray-can gold graffiti

as it appears,

etched deeply inside the pregnant belly of that very bloated kingdom, the high sphinx.

Treasures inside
apparently costing deaths
flood the godless hallways and
super rich people design words like
photography
to capture splendors
to be manhandled from above—

Intended peaceful resting

homes for those in gauze,
vinegar spiced

raisin mummies.

 

 

 

Fresh baked Prophets pop into
Jerry Seinfeld’s New York lair of laughs
and greedy bastards.
So
they are palming our perceptions, pocketbooks, and
they are making us laugh,

very hard.

Laugh out loud. Lol.

Once overtaken by the bug
an expedition is funded,
seeking mastery; death; or futility of disease.

very long winded lectures consisting of endless rules consisting of numbers and such.

Long winded writers.  Laugh Out Loud.

The bug is
a metaphor for anything one undertakes in life.

not the highest dollar commanding tip amount,
but where the true dankness
of which will then please your stomach
lies.

(This will be fumbled by my punter’s hold of our language)

This may only be done by thy will.

Granted,

only from those residing quite tall

from above even the very tall length

of my house.  or

Even

your house too : (

At altitude resides the muses,
for only they bet.
Stacking the highest  of gold plated

chips.
Mad chips.

Plentiful chips,

much chips.

In here only delights are inhaled
and its grey wisdom fog
fills the far-
out sound of Waters

on repeat.

Nectar  distributed into

pale ghettos,
seeping into forearm veins
receiving such high
and unworthy
blessings

from

those nine9…

Flash!!!

Opium infused Tech Nines litter
the artist’s yards.

If it pleases now…

 

Release gats from their safety.

Breathe science into my greyest of matters.

Speeding swords of words and periods, commas, semi colons and so on.
And so on and on,
until stumbling
at the foot of truth and justice’s large

red,

white and blue

colored house.
Workers inside her Roman hallways care deeply at heart
in chilly confines,

they care for these two things:
truth & justice

Sing now,

Whisper now nocturnals of blessing

granted

far too few
into the ocular
cones and rods,
manifesting:

a vision of worth

or

one worth having that is,

to begin more

precisely.

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