My Muse and Succubus
A short kind of poem about mutual inspiration
I talked to my faery lover again last night Or so she says she is And mostly I believe her
Sleepy sloppy electric kisses and a coil of copper wire around my hippocampus and my cock
Giving me ideas
Some dark and provoking, poking, hoping, knowing that anytime could be the last for us, my lover
Some bright and bold, as gold, unsold, chilled cold that we each are just imagining the other
You laugh “If only one of us were real, who would it be?”
You tell me
You a voice on a wire, an explosion of pixels, a tingling and rush of blood to the hands and the mind and wherever intangible, ethereal, clever
Me a piece of old ceramic, worn with age but solid enough, dropped more than once, chipped around the edges but not broken Dense with meaning unspoken
How then could we meet?
Some magicks are harder than others Some spells are pronounced forever and never cast Because the joy is in the speaking
So faery-girl or muse or succubus, by turn and by choice I invite you in, and always will.