This could be my last post.
Then again, it could just be the next post.
What it is not, is beatifically (beat, as in beatnik) inspired poetry.
My Muses have entirely abandoned me. I haven't written of an inspired grasp of the eternally promoting feminine live-in-the-moment since the last time I lived in the moment. And it's been so long that I could easily imagine that I've forgotten when that was. I am so Muse-bereft that I'm starting to think that the Sirens ( I now hear them ever-vescently) of many past odysseys are hot and sure and rapturous Muse-type hookers that could poetry-start me for the puny phallic cost of my eternally-dedicated rapture unto them. Rapture. Lose control. Yeah, go ahead baby, blare your Sirens and flash your best e.e.cummings' emergency lights all the way to the horizon limits of your inescapable all-consuming undiscriminating pitch (, pitch black)holes.
I am like unto a heat-seeking missile cast into the absolute-zero vacuum of a pointilistically-brilliant yet beyond-humanly-imaginable someday Golden Eternity. At least, I have left here-and-there-abouts here - and somewhat there about.
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