The Slave Driver

[ampoule]

The Slave Driver

Classes, meetings, rehearsals,
bits of meals grabbed here and there,
exhaustion, yet exhilaration, and hope,
to walk through the door and feast
my eyes on a full table,
be it cold or hot, light or heavy,
but something, something I tell you!
Not this morsel or crumb served up
because of television or duties or
God forbid, a life! Excuse denied!
A different time zone you say, sleep?
Sleep? Pshaw! Forget about it!
Get up, get up! What are you saying?
No muse? Ridiculous! Impossible!
Sit up straight! Look at the screen.
Give me your hands! Now type! Type!
Let your soul spill forth upon this site,
More! More! I need more!

amp, EightFiftyFivePM, September Thirteenth, TwoThousandSeven


Sorry...that's how I feel when I come here at night and there are no new poems to read! hehe

[motherhubbard]

well thanks for offering up this to feast upon. I wish I could reciprocate

[PrinceMyshkin]

Ah, the pain of the everyday!
It touches us like the absent-minded hand
of a once passionate lover.
Where once we burned with a flame
that consumed every ordinary thing
about us and left nothing
but white hot essence,
now there is only these painted footsteps
everywhere we go and somehow
we don't dare walk other
than in every dull, repetitive one of them!

[ampoule]

The Slave Driver

Sorry...that's how I feel when I come here at night and there are no new poems to read! hehe

Just in case you didn't read the small print.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Just in case you didn't read the small print.

Akshually, the small print is the only part I read. Was there more?

[Pendragon]

Slave Driver

That single eye glares
and the ebony teeth chatter furiously,
get on with it now, pal,
this page won't wait all day.
The letters crawl like tiny spiders
weaving across the white wasteland
trailing sentences behind them
a web work of words.
Write, write, write!
I write because I am driven.
The Muse is a Dominatrix
who wields the cat without mercy,
sadistic leather-clad beauty—
pain equals pleasure,
sorrow becomes sonnet,
fear turns to form poetry—
while under her lash…

Pendragon
© 9/14/07