Self explanatory I suppose…  Terpsichore is the muse of dance, so why she should have chosen me…

The strumpet knows 

who blows the loudest trumpet.

Meanwhile my mellow clarinet 

is met with plain disdain.

It’s all the same to Chore, 

she’s Greek you see,

and thinks of me 

as Western barbarian.

An Aryan dyspeptic 

who writes in septic verse, 

or worse. Who’s fallen 

neath the curse; 

the empty purse 

of literary spendthrifts 

whose gifts are stacked 

behind the imaginary firewall 

for all the good they are 

to me, or her.

The future’s brighter 

for writers with the right stuff, 

and I’m not one, fair enough.

My muse has left the building.

She’s taken her bow 

and vows,’that’s it.

Unless I crack the code 

that sees the inspiration 

come online again.

Fine I say ‘on you go’. 

Leave me to find my Mojo

on my own. I’Il call her 

on the celestial phone

when I’ve retrieved my voice…

© franciman 2019
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critique and comments welcome.

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“…to find my Mojo…” I laughed. Nice touch.

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