Dead Muse

1.

I killed my Muse, and dragged her to the meat market.

She took appearance of a book, but does it matter?

For me, she is a naked woman put out there —

A carbon copy of this gal

Who stares at me back from the mirror,

Judgmental, critical and fearful

That she will always lose…

To comfort her, I sacrificed my Muse.

She’s delicate and soft, spiced up for the consumers,

A treat of premium steak, or better carp —

She used to be a Mermaid with the harp.

…A mouth-watering stuffed goose applies as well

For she's a Phoenix too, but who’s to tell.

Potential buyers overlook it —

They go after flesh that feeds their hunger,

In search of feeling better — stronger, younger…

My highest hope is touching many hearts,

But very few want theirs to heal…

The rest will go for a hearty meal.

To not be hypocritical I will admit:

Yours truly isn’t a vegan, either —

But on the market everything is meat

And I am not that psyched about commerce,

I shun that element, in which I can’t immerse,

Repulsed by sleaziness, things loud and poor-smelling…

But here’s the deal: no best without selling.

This challenge is death sentence to my Muse…

I did it fast, no point to break the news.

One simple and effective Voodoo spell —

And I’m the one who feels like she’s in hell.

“DEAD” carved across her forehead —

All caps, the color of her tresses

When blood dries out;

I’m covering my messes

With fancy fabrics, catchy decorations

Of sly rhetorics, smooth narrations.

Now put her in that coffin, Arc of Fame,

Cheer up! Don’t dare say that this is lame.

’Tis how it’s done — one size fits all,

Regardless if they’re short or tall.

That’s standards, formulas and social games,

Just zip your lips, and don’t you call them names.

They say: “What an attractive candy wrapping!

This sweetie is so calm she must be napping.”

I’m suffocating; all this hype is fake.

It feels so wrong… It’s more than I can take.

“Oh, she is sure a stunner!” some folks drool,

While trying to get close to auctioned ghoul,

Complaining that the price is way too high…

They cannot touch her yet — but try.

They would have snagged her if allowed,

Ignoring any comments from the crowd

And do some things not to be mentioned…

Not much protection from the ill-intentioned!

They feast their eyes on this seductive corpse,

In hopes of eating her alive, or worse.

The morbid truth right in their face

But they don’t see it…

Imagination fills up empty inner space,

Becomes addictive:

They’re only free in dreams,

Reality’s restrictive.

The rare exception from majority are few

Who have the X-ray vision.

For them, like everyone, frustration’s nothing new

But clean consistent fight is their decision.

They use the books they read as rocket fuel to LIVE,

To them it is my privilege to give.

They know what they get

And where it comes from,

Yet fear not and take it slowly in,

Unshaken by disturbing things I mean.

With due respect and caution

Aware that too much at once is poison.

For those the “meat” becomes communion…

Shall I say more? I love you, bookaholics.

But why the rest would even bother?

Perhaps because they have the money

To stock their bookshelves with most recent hits,

From which they hardly read some meme-sized bits

And make impression on their guests

Who aren’t much more to them then pests.

I hope I’m wrong… I smell decay

And watch with guilt-infused dismay

As my another Self gets laid out on the table,

Sold out…

Price tag around her toe,

My pass to better life.

Nauseated and ashamed,

I wish I didn’t see it —

But this is how you sell.

Cheer up! Remember how you struggled?

So let your heart be other people’s toy.

It’s in demand,

You’ve earned your prize, enjoy.

Eventually, I get the money,

And watch my desecrated Muse gift-wrapped for strangers,

The "DEAD” spell on her forehead still,

The fancy box and paper stained with blood.

She sacrificed herself so I can live by modern standards.

Back home, I take a bath but still feel grimy,

As I count the profit… just enough

To buy the Dream Home that I’ve always wanted

And show it off to those who didn’t believe in me,

To make them green with envy.

Why do I feel so heartsick? Where’s the triumph?

Brain-dead, I tell myself again

That I have scored if I’m expensive,

Since that’s the only measure of my worth.

But the impression lingers

That I had sold my soul, not only body…oopsie! writing;

That’s two in one! I double-closed the sale.

2.

And here I am, bestselling author —

A classic standard to look up to

Clean-cut and square, all formulas applied

My books are premium sirloin,

Its market niche insured

By toning down nutrition value…

Don’t be intense — it’s overwhelming,

Dilute that blood, or otherwise

You won’t fit in… you know what that means?

I do… I learned to toe the line —

But there's something about me that you don't know, bitches.

One night I go to the graveyard,

Or city dump, if this is what it takes

To find her and to dig her out,

No matter what condition she is in, —

To bring her home,

And Dance her back to life.

“…What are you doing dumpster-diving, weirdo?"

"I'm looking for my Muse".

"Get out of here!"

But I've already snatched what I came for.

There's rarely the whole piece — just a token,

Or few if I am lucky:

Whatever was her “imperfection”

Rejected by the market,

Consumer’s trash is my true treasure.

Some said the book lacked proper structure,

For others it was not political enough;

A few complained about tabooed subjects,

Emotional but graphically vague —

But most severe criticism

Attacked indifference to mainstream values,

Too much free spirit, anchored in itself —

Too independent, therefore dangerous…

Those fatal flaws are keys to resurrection:

I didn't sell out completely,

My Muse can live again.

I run a bath for her… it seems impossible —

She doesn’t look that great.

“Remember when you said

You wanted to be skin and bones?” she teases me

As I unseal her mouth

By putting on that lipstick, sassy-red.

I feel relieved:

You won’t hear banter from the dead.

The killing curse dissolves. Instead

She wears eye makeup, all bold colors,

Dramatically tinted eyebrows

And long white gown rimmed with lace.

Her wings unfold again, all feathers back in place.

Whether they’re light or dark — it all depends,

She couldn’t care less who she offends.

She speaks the truth and looks me in the eye,

Killed many times, she’s not afraid to die.

But she won’t leave me so I’m doomed again

To follow her lead down through the drain

Of bathtub where she lives and soaks her tail —

That tub has long become my Holy Grail.

My Mermaid sister, doppelgänger, Muse

Is hard to be with yet if I could choose

To cut her off and live like ‘normal’ people do,

That wouldn’t work: I’d be gone too.

Whatever’s dry, restricted and mundane

Is but another facet of insane.

So we team up, get busy;

It never has been easy…

She’s always there for me, it’s time to learn:

She will expect same favor in return.

One day I may be killed by her instead,

What are my chances to be back from dead?

If roles we play are destined to reverse—

Which market will she take me to,

And what will I be worth?

October 2015 — May 2021.