Tag Archives: muse
Breaking Poetry News Update !!!
URGENT NEWS for my 5 regular readers:
I am guilty of taking the easy way out of poetry-blogging.
Yes, lyrical brothers and sisters, I have committed online crimes. I have posted any random video found to be amusing or relevant instead of being TRUE to my VERSE.
BitChutes and YouTubes have been impulsively embedded here at ConnectHook, instead of opening the splendorous portals of Poetry for my loyal readers to enter. I have not self-promoted sufficiently. Instead, I have veered off into culture warring, esthetic/political provocation, and endless agit-prop. Oh sweet muse, long suffering mentor, matrix and moonbeam-milker, FORGIVE ME. Withdraw not the sweet rivulets and gushing springs of your lyric inspiration. Pour out upon my readers, from the crystal pitcher of your pure poetic sources, a life-giving stream of living waters. Cast out the demons of boring modernist free-verse and incoherent identity-politics drivel. Long-suffering muse of mine, restore us one and all back to POETRY— the only reason to live and to love, the only antidote to an unfunny clownworld hell-bent on self-destruction. Remember not my poetic sins, oh faithful lover of my soul— be merciful unto me, dear lady of lyrical laughter and light.
SPRAY THEM with poetry oh muse;
MOW them DOWN with the Gatling-gun of your golden graces.
…cause itz ALL about tha POETRY, y’all.
Vargas Girl
Crabalocker fishwife, pornographic priestess
Boy, you’ve been a naughty girl,
you let your knickers down
John Lennon
A carnal muse and fallen sprite
I’ll paint for you, in flattering light.
My model’s sensuality
Shall trump all dull reality;
Inspired by Womankind’s raw truth,
Life-drawing class heats up, uncouth.
Still, I am sure some stiff-necked prude
Shall smear my heartfelt lay as lewd.
Edenic exile sought by men,
Receive this tribute from my pen
And keyboard, played inexpertly
By one who knows you rapturously
As a muse of Aztec/Latin race
Prodigious in your works and grace:
Born Ruth Ayon, in God-Knows-Where,
She overwhelms in underwear—
And shedding that, turns good men bad,
Makes angels fall and gods go mad.
Los Angeles (and that’s the joke)
Is where this cherub went for broke,
Cashing in her soul for action,
Soreness, sperm and tumefaction.
Laurie Vargas, mouth full of cum,
Spread for us now your Aztec bum.
Your sultry contours hypnotize;
The laughter in your wetback eyes
Brings music from Tenochtitlán
And opens windows to Aztlán
You smile, unlike those other sluts
Who merely grimace. Gringa butts
Are less audacious than your own . . .
Their charms are better left unknown.
Your cheeks in tan proportion shine
Embodying some rare truth divine.
(Through Poetry, I’ll make them mine.)
I must speak forth of what I found—
Though standing on unholy ground,
Here I behold your lively art . . .
Your unpierced flesh has lanced my heart.
Whereas most stars are tattooed, jaded
Your bright aspect shines, unfaded.
Clad in campesina thread
While moaning on your torrid bed,
Adorned in homespun broidered blouse
In some vaquero‘s rancho-house
Or naked as Mexica dawn,
Bespattered like a dewdropped lawn,
Spurting with some panting plumber
In an endless porno-summer,
You glow, like honey dipped in light
And undulating Latin night.
Your burning bush, much-trafficked place,
Recalls the Red Sea’s parted space
No less than your beatific face.
An unrepentant Magdalene,
You plunge into each graphic scene.
Madonna of the varied act
You swell, engorge, dilate, contract
And play the part with crazy wit
Suckling madly at your own tit.
The way you can accommodate
What barely seems to satiate
With pure abandon, leaves us awed,
As mesmerized, your name we laud,
(With one hand—harder to applaud !)
Will you survive to have regrets
When raw desire no longer gets
Your body hot with inner flame?
When sex has ceased to call your name?
I wonder if you’ve found such paths
Of flesh and pimping sociopaths
A route to riches, gain, and pleasure
Or mere sacking of your treasure.
At the end of your sweaty day,
Is there more than a harlot’s pay?
I wish you well—and hope in time,
When life has left you less sublime,
You’ll find your way to God through Christ
And learn of what was sacrificed
To free you from your sordid fame
Where sinners hail your glorious shame.
Laurie Vargas was born in 1983 in Los Angeles, California, as Ruth Ayon.
(Some sources indicate Guadalajara Mexico as her birthplace)
PROMPT #14: write a poem that deals with people who inspired you to write poems.
These could be people that you strive to be like,
or even people that you strive not to be like.
There are as many ways to go with this prompt as there are ways to be inspired.
April: La Coronada
Huddled in your castles like Prospero’s doomed revelers, sighing in the springtime of contagion, you evade and avoid the obvious. But the Muse has entered, unseen, and stands among you in her mask of elegiac splendor. She smiles as you mock her presence. She laughs quietly to herself as her influence wafts upon the very air, inspiring and infecting all concerned. You try to protect yourselves from the lyric epidemic, nonetheless her viral poetic molecules go forth, regroup, mutate, and attach themselves to the souls of her detractors. Her spores hang upon the very droplets of the mist, a suspended Parnassian miasma. The first tremors of poetic sickness begin to shudder deep within and among the most reluctant revelers. They try to dispel their fears; they brag and congratulate themselves, chattering about the uselessness of poetry, listing all they ways in which they have successfully barricaded themselves from her pestilential presence. But the Muse has entered and none can ensure her departure. Poetry will have her way and resistance is futile. Some will survive, but others will meet her as their avenging angel of the plague, and neither Egyptian magic nor sanitizing legerdemain shall deter the blossoming vector of her influence. Fear, oh unpoetic readers, this sudden lyrical acceleration, this verdant celebration:
our poetic coronation.
A M U S E
CONNECT/HOOK 