Pickle my mind in something briny,
behold: a Muse that’s laser-shiny.
It’s not a shrink ray.
No, it’s a drink ray.
It doesn’t make you tiny.
It makes your brain all misaligny.
Some guns shoot fire
Or high-tensile wire
This gun’s ordinance?
Alcoholic discordinance.
Some call the blaster “clumsy and random”
Some squads fire ten rifles in tandem,
Some eschew guns and cast flaming bolts
Some stand around open-mouthed, looking like dolts
Some cry “Havoc!” and then let loose
The Krakens of war. Now that’s obtuse:
The Krakens will their foes devour
Then stick around for Happy Hour.
And if they get into the Tequila,
They’ll hug us to death with their pseudopodelia,
And if they get to the Demon Rum,
You’d best flee fast to Kingdom come.
You’ve been at the bar for fourteen days,
With alcohol your mind to braise.
They might hold a trial (in absentia)
To see just how Absinthe’s bent ya.
And still the Muse won’t come ’round
(Though this is the bar where she’s often found.)
The secret’s not in alcohol;
It’s not in anything at all.
Inspiration’s secret home
Is not a palace of glass or chrome.
It can’t be found on any chart
Because it is inside your heart.
But you, my friend, are a heartless thing
Your heart beats from pure spite and sting
You’ll never hear the Muse’s storm
Unless you learn to reform.
…I’m joking, oh, my writer sweet
If you must find a heart to beat
Then please take mine; I have no use for it
I’m not the sort to need a Muse for it.
…Let other writers the Muses seek
And I’ll stay an authorial freak.
This is my design, and my station:
I make words from grim determination.
I wrench these words, still bloody and screaming
Out of nightmares, sharp and gleaming.
I tear these words, with ugly truth
From the misbegotten memories of my youth
I pull words, against their will,
From all those moments I used to fill
With useless things, now long discarded
From a life with which I’m gladly parted.
I write; I think; I make; I read.
And that is really all I need.
My Muse, I’ve found, truly writes best
Howling through my ribs from the cage in my chest.
My name is Jeff Mach (“Dark Lord” is optional) and I build communities and create things. Every year, I put on a Halloween Market. I also write a lot of fantasy and science fiction.. You can get most of my books right here. Go ahead, pre-order “I HATE Your Prophecy“. It may make you into a bad person, but I can live with that.
