I am not the master of my writing

-
my writing masters me,
seizing me when the seizure is a sure thing,
it dictates to its enslaved scribe
what it desires this utensil to reveal and expel -
the contraries
who having battled to a ****** draw leaves the battlefield trembling with indecent indecision; the optimal conditions for its macrobiotic invasion of my brain stem;

the she-muse offers me two choices:
she wants a poem writ forthwith
on the lyrical expression
of depression and refusal is
non optional

so I fantasize escape and that becomes
her property as well;
evidence against me to be used at my trials,
the one where there is no statue of liberty
from the limitations of prior bad acts;

I offer the she-muse two choices:

give me a cabin with WiFi
and self-enforcement of solitary confinement and
tie me up with the rope remainders of broken bonds,

bonds that tied me up worse
when they were broken
and the peaceful withering
that won’t disrupt disturb nobody
from a distance

my other choice is to bury me
forthwith next to my parents
and shutter my constant tearing eyes which are drop-resistant

muse says that’s no choice
I own your voice stilled or not,
will bill your soul’s account for
denial of poetic services

weep; i don’t want the noises that curse this troubled
bodyship don’t want recollections good or bad

the muse-***** cackles with insanity of delight
for she accepts this writ as partial payment
on her commission, whispers I love your
lyrical expressions of depression
that ****** recognition algorithms
alert me that seizing time is nigh

there is no on/off switch for one like you:
father son and holy ghost

Victory is of the self.

Another threadbare exchange to leave my spirit in poverty.
Nothing I remember but the time we drifted near my planetary ego.

Planet.
You know the Greeks called it aster planetai? The star that moves.

Why be something I’m not?

It was always about me – the bloated body expelled into space.
I can be less grotesque. I can be less absolute.
I can be less dead sooner over later.

But why be something I’m not?

I am the object of my own worship, and I shall take no gods before me.
In lieu I’ll take them with me.

They the minor idols, capsuled icons, escape pods burnt in the crazy science fiction fires of atmosphere re-entry.

Everyone was all the time fleas flaked off my solar bodyship, seeking exaltation in pursuit ex nil ad nihil.
I’d apologize for my deceptions, but I’ve got a lot to learn about remorse and little time to learn it.

Horror genre, body to cosmic. Gaze you, the invited subject, upon the approaching sun from the whet of my exhausted maw.

Burn out your eyes.

Who is greater than the sun? Who can talk more than me? It's become my occupation.

Matches made with flesh and fuel wait for the final fade to white.