The Muse Demands Her Service -- in a Tinseled Bowel

Oh the hours! -- I can take no more of literature...

So you have come, so you have finally come.
Good. Come here, Aeolus, keep the stallions, look,
His mane is whipping frail, and the incessant north
Incurs the oaks' destruction, timber
Is gathering in the clouds; between the voyage of the moon
And Aurora golden dawn will be weary,
If you don't rein him in.

That business -- sorry.
You came by foot? What penalties incurred? Worn shoes,
Ragged feet. Well it's no matter -- look at this chaos,
A weary marksman couldn't shoot the distance to the edge
Of the throbbing skein. Bleeding pierced fingers? Well the warp
Is in the woof; every-thing's changing, it must constantly be
Re-sown. That's why we need you: quite a good stock,
I'll take it down like a rose vintage, encrusted in the age's
Salt, vinegared, though it retains that sparkling thrust
That boils the mind. Smell. Ah yes, there's a good burgundy for you;
Drink: these are the streams. So you can begin work
Immediately? Something new, something new (muses) -- well we have plenty
Of death, something closer to life's core? Ah, a few volumes
Of philosophical wit; no? Doesn't suit
Your taste? Would you like to see language disfigured and refigured,
Moon-changed, vagabond, fugitive of conjurers' tricks and spelling itself
At every turn in a newfound disguise for your indelible surprise?
Hmmph. Love poets: A clime of Phoebus settled in her crown,
And expelled, through jeweled minstrelsies,
In the forlorn flicker of her eyes, or Shed
The deeper darkness of your soul to my light touch,
And let me keep the hidden parts, and munch over these delicates,
This tender bone? Prattlings neither? Well the orbis terrarum is, by no means,
Expunged, and she propels all flowerings and fruits from fatal branches,
Scathing cities in her silken sinuosities, triumphing of towers,
Piercing the aether, fecund in the silence of space. Leave? Don't leave!
Did I speak harshly? Aether, azure, axes, will you not delight in orbs,
The vault, double-arched ceiling of the soil, dirty earth? You can't
Leave! These musings caged, you don't understand how their sparrowed song
Leaves me harrowed and weakling in the evenings, torments me month by month,
Pleading, begging for morsels, many lies, and truth. Lie for me, strum, strumpet,
Sing -- but you can't leave. I'm afraid of the dark, and the long moans,
The mist that settles on the mire for a banshee's cry, forlorn scream
Of a murdering indulgence. Aeolus! Bear him in the western wind, then,
Scatter him like leaves! This furnace cannot be ignored, our rage
(Of which we required volumes) inextinguishable pursues you to the ends
Of earth, yes earth, our earth, however withering spectacular
You might become. The muse requires service, not of one penis
But plenty, for she is vast and engulfing, she is a goddess hungry for our tales.