Provoking the Muse
Who's got a little pussy for a painter?
For Picasso?
For an artist,
who will change the flesh you're written on?
Men of art need female protein
to feed their appetites,
their artistic tendencies,
(at least that's how the legend goes);
to produce their greatest works,
to forever change the world.
But,
what's a bite of tail to Miles Davis?
And who would choose to be a muse
if it means to be abused?
A meal mulled over,
contemplated,
ruminated,
worked over, passed over,
digested and then past?
After all,
What's a piece of ass to Jackson Pollack?
But art demands sacrifice
and you can't offer yourself, right?
(Well, maybe to liquor)
Who would take the credit?
Art needs meat;
even rock stars get groupies.
So,
who's got a little blood for a poet?
A parasite,
who needs
to finish a poem that he's been working on?
This
poem originally appeared in Cellar Roots