In answer to the question “How does it feel when your muse runs his fingers through your hair, resting his palms bare on your crown?”
Its like being possessed by an effeminately androgynous angel,
who may not have fallen, but definitely has some explaining to do,
As words and visions pass through my brain, down my arm, and into my right hand,
As if whispered in my ear by a one-eyed raven sitting on my shoulder
Telling me about his day.
There’s a shot of adrenaline to my heart, pupils dilate,
And my hand is compulsed to write everything down,
Sensical or nonsensical, until the episode passes.
My cramping clenched fist tries hard to write legibly,
As the words come faster than I can safely write,
Pain surging arthritically through my bones.
In the end I’m left alone, in a post-coital haze,
To finish and polish the lunatical ravings
Scribbled in my little black notebook.
Poem #25 for National Poetry Writing Month (aka #NaPoWriMo
With thanks to Sarah Doughty for inspiration.