Inflammatory Writ

Oh, where is your inflammatory writ?

Your text that would incite a light; 'be lit'

Our music deserving

Devotion unswerving

Cried; 'do I deserve her?'

With unflagging fervor

Well, no we do not, if we cannot get over it

But what's it mean when suddenly we're spent? - tell me true

Ambition came and reared its head and went - far from you

Even mollusks have weddings

Though solemn and leaden

But you dirge for the dead

And take no jam on your bread

Just a supper of salt and a waltz through your empty bed

And all at once

It came to me

And I wrote in hunch 'til four-thirty

But that vestal light

It burns out with the night

In spite of all the time that we spend on it

Om one bedraggled ghost of a sonnet

While outside the wild boars root

Without bending a bough underfoot

Oh, it breaks my heart - I don't know how they do it

So don't ask me!

And as for my inflammatory writ?

Well I wrote it and I was not inflamed one bit

Advice from the master

Derailed that disaster

Said; 'hand that pen over to me, poetaster!'

While across the great plains

Keening lovely & awful

Ululate the last great american novels

An unlawful lot left, to stutter and freeze floodlit

But at least they didn't run, to their undying credit