My Muse is at a Sci-Fi Convention in Reykjavik
The art of writing is a hectic adventure,
One needs a Muse to get the creative juices oozing nicely,
Like [insert simile here.]
My Muse often sits with me while I'm writing,
Or does a little belly dance.
His name's Carl, and he's fucked off this weekend,
So bear with me.
Oh unobtrusive sock, over there in the corner!
My heart is a big, lumpy metaphor, filled with consternation
And temperament and riboflavin.
How can I smell thee? Let me count the ways!
1. With my nose.
2. Ask someone else to smell you and then tell me about it.
I'm watching Star Trek for inspiration,
Since Carl's not here to give me a scene by scene breakdown of his favourite episodes.
Ah, hot cyborg chick, that I were a lace upon that bra that I might touch thy boob!
[Mild sexy dialogue with fatuous use of words that imply my penis.]
Or I could write about nature,
That's always popular.
I wandered lonely like a cloud that has no other clouds to talk to,
Floating around all on my own,
Pining for a soft, fluffy lady cloud to share my skies with.
I like that. That's pretty good, emotional resonance and whatnot.
Or war, people write about war.
Bang bang! Rattle, boing! Havoc and all that! Roar, munch, pew pew pew!
That was a dragon with laser eyes. It's a medieval space battle.
Did I mention that?
Floating above the twirly whirly planet,
Like a balloon that contains the exact amount of helium required to stop you from either sinking or floating any higher but lets you hover in the same spot for a while.
Why do you deploy your pew pew laser dragon upon my person?
We are not so different, you aliens and I,
With your arms and legs, the thing on your head that I think has the same function as something similar looking that I also have,
And your dislike of being shot at, which I can totally relate to.