Muse, O Muse, edumacate
me, so I can write a poem:
Maybe those dead gods from across the sea can inspire me.
Set can set me up
With Isis in the back seat, and Osiris in the trunk,
Then I can learn me the arts of erotion.
And with Minerva I can cloak the emotion
In erudition and write like Pound.
Anubis can teach me to write like Plath,
Or maybe Byron in a bad mood.
Old Tlaloc can bathe me in blood, but he’s from Mexico
And all that’s come out of there is One Trillion Years of Aloneitude, or
Maybe Si Wang-mu, Royal Mother of the West, can teach me to create like Li Po,
But he’s a little dry for my taste: only the wind of the immortals and
bones of the Tao.
No meat on him.
Hey, there’s a god who’s worth looking to: Thor.
He can smash stuff…
…Well, maybe he’s not such a poet after all.
Visnu could come to me, and I could be Arjuna,
Or I might end up like his uncles.
Those Hindu gods are poets, but mean.
I think I’ll stay away from them.
Gilgamesh was ⅓ god, but couldn’t stay awake to catch infinity.
Utnapishtim judged him right:
He would probably fall asleep in the middle of inspiring me.
Dead Cthulhu, sleeping in his house at R’yleh,
Now there’s a god worth volumes of poems:
He gets in your head and drains your sanity.
Maybe Dutch Schultz was an aquaintance of his,
But I rather like the order I impose on the universe.
The Bear of old Rus might give me some rhymes,
But I hear he’s in cahoots with a witch.
Lament, O ye masses:
The Gods are dead!
And the Orisises ain’t risin’.