I thought,
and sat down –
that’s what you expect me to do?

my personal muse,
my cornucopia –
should I refuse you?

write down that,
write down this,
I don’t care what you need!

You’re a muse,
a projected image!

mountains, mountains, mountains.
oceans, oceans, oceans.
The stars glittered,
and fuck,
I wiped them out with an eraser –

how ugly!
how disproportional!
I prefer light pollution,
and dirty streets;
the frontier,

drowning out your noise,
your lizard tongue –
fantastical beasts, be damned!

You spout your importance,
like some kind of God –
but all you are, muse,
is a parched shrub,
dying in theĀ fire.