I posted this in "Poetry", but thought some of you might like it.
The Novelist-god Waxes Poetic Upon Completion of His Story
Quiet, fell Eidolons, be still, and you,
wizards, lovers, fools, bullies and even
cannon-fodder folk, constructs- drop castings-
from the synaptic-fire kilns of my mind,
fruit of fertile fields from which I raised you,
buds of an idea-seed, nurtured and pruned
by my hand that you might tell your story
upon the printed page. I have you trapped,
pixel-pasted upon this screen, ensconced
in magnetic pits- one hundred thousand
drops from my mind's quill, in prose-perfection-
deny me not my forty days and nights
that I might yet wash my world clean of you.
No more murmured moments in the dark nights,
nor unwashed, fingered intrusions that stir
the gravy of my days. No more ranting
at the altar, for your fate is set thus.
I am your god and I demand silence.
But, lo, who is yon knave who approaches,
envelope in hand? (likely some missive
from the faithful) And I, upon this stage
do humbly accept such adorations.
Fevered hands tear to hear patrons’ gilded
critique, but lo, what is this blasphemy
upon the eyes of the novelist-god?
Damned Joseph to my angel. Who demands
a clean manuscript to you by Friday?
Goddamned agents and publishers. Shit! Shit!
The Novelist-god Waxes Poetic Upon Completion of His Story
Quiet, fell Eidolons, be still, and you,
wizards, lovers, fools, bullies and even
cannon-fodder folk, constructs- drop castings-
from the synaptic-fire kilns of my mind,
fruit of fertile fields from which I raised you,
buds of an idea-seed, nurtured and pruned
by my hand that you might tell your story
upon the printed page. I have you trapped,
pixel-pasted upon this screen, ensconced
in magnetic pits- one hundred thousand
drops from my mind's quill, in prose-perfection-
deny me not my forty days and nights
that I might yet wash my world clean of you.
No more murmured moments in the dark nights,
nor unwashed, fingered intrusions that stir
the gravy of my days. No more ranting
at the altar, for your fate is set thus.
I am your god and I demand silence.
But, lo, who is yon knave who approaches,
envelope in hand? (likely some missive
from the faithful) And I, upon this stage
do humbly accept such adorations.
Fevered hands tear to hear patrons’ gilded
critique, but lo, what is this blasphemy
upon the eyes of the novelist-god?
Damned Joseph to my angel. Who demands
a clean manuscript to you by Friday?
Goddamned agents and publishers. Shit! Shit!