Rousing Muse - 1st Draft, connachlon

[Philatone]

hello tracey!

some thoughts for you

Rousing Muse

Like me, she oversleeps,
keeps to herself too long
saronged in thread-worn sheets,
pleats deeply flesh-etched in pale skin...."flesh-etched" wasn't my favorite; understand the meaning
Sins: A slothful glutton for resting,...interesting parallel with "sloth" and "gluttony"
nesting beneath crochet-waffled patterns,
matters of life’s deaths beyond
songs in dreams and the insistent bird cheeps..."cheeps" works in many ways, not the least being the "cheapening of depth", what with the preceding lines talking about life and death only to be followed by birds
(“Pleap! Pleap!) outside the blinded window. ...again, "blinded window"--I'm understanding the phrasing, but the phrasing itself doesn't resonate
Widow of naiveté, too long dead
(Said, to the mustachioed man of one night’s
blight-collage, through lips glued
too long, “…you…are…the…rapist…”)....to this point, I feel like the form is making me race through the lines---details are being layered into details, which could be appropriate with the weaving images in the beginning. however, i have to keep stopping myself to keep focused. the connections can be lost easily
Safest to “Dear Diary” in rose-colored ink,
sink what’s unfathomable in food and drink, drown
sounds of the neglected infant,
skinflints of affection in succession,
recessions of trust and fairness.
Heiress, Exemplar, of Confidence Slain.
Cranes origamied, fingers crossed,
lost pennies to fountains,
mountains of journals,
kernels, all, that led not to luck nor opus,...liked this line
focus shanked by the rank and file’s
bile. At times: I smiled, muse complied,
plied rogue ideas from time to time,
dime store productions, messes mostly,
ghostly, unschooled, immature pap,
sapped of promise. A shame, my inability,
immobility when it was time to drive dreams home,
Gloam-time detours from original intents,
bent to the next worse thing.
Zing-a-ding-ding. When will of me I sing?
Bring it, Muse. Get. UP. Your wounds are mine,
brine soaked, scab-laden.
Maidens no more are we. Time marches,
parches parts and parcels but not all.
Fall. In. Time to rumble, pique our psyche.

the momentum you establish is dizzying, but again, it's appropriate for the content and form. it's possible for lines to get buried in the mixed, but maybe that is a necessary sacrifice for effect? not entirely sure myself. regardless, it was an interesting read; i think it's fitting for the form