Wednesday, January 18, 2017

Deserted by the Muse

—Poems by Michael Marrotti, Pittsburgh, PA
—Anonymous Photos


I've been fucking
like a teenager
spewing cum
like a rock star
the winning
lottery ticket
is within my grasp
I can ditch
the title of loser
by society's standard

Swapped my bus pass
for gallons of gas
more horses
than I can count
have enabled me
to move ahead
in the rearview
mirror is where I
used to reside

Good news
from the private eye
he's detained my mind
who I've lost long ago
saying goodbye
to the hiatus

Telling similar lies
to three
different women
all eager
for my attention
can often be
but at the end
of the day
after one too many
I've figured
some things out

Everything I thought
would bring me
has sucked me
dry of all
the necessary juices
required to breed
a new generation
of taxpayers
and dissuade them
from leaping
off of bridges


I retained my mind
after years of hiatus
in a indistinguishable
form of what it once was

This canvas is barren
I should feel elated
living in this
social utopia
the meaning
is lost

No hurdle in sight
except this dead-end
way of thinking
one less asshole
provoking me
to violence
fractured fingers
prohibit the writing

my own shadow
nostalgically speaking
dialing 911
what's the emergency
no inspiration

An ideal time to smile
who wants to have
more fun than me
if that was a possibility
this impediment
has superseded
the enthusiasm
I have for living

When the ink
has reached its limit
dried up
like a sedated vagina
I'll scale the border
as I split this personality
dismiss my women
revert to masturbation
drag a keen blade
up my wrist
in the shape
of a smile
and use this blood
to express
these belated feelings


Recording music
no one will hear
the passion
keeps on rolling
in tune
with the record

is not
in vain

Writing poetry
no one will read
the ink keeps spilling
emotional discord
down on the page

This too
is not
in vain

Once the writer
by the lack
of praise

in the towel
to go in
for another

The writer
has sacrificed
his greatest gift
to society

of a broken ego
ineffectual need
to cure himself
of his own pain


I could write
shit all day
and make
it stick

Churn out
the most
verse and
not hear
a word

I could write
like I truly
didn't mean it
those words
would find a
common core

Two steps
or five steps
isn't going
to sign
me up
for a

This is
what it is
I'm under
no delusion

Nothing will
be changed
nothing will
be taught


How many
can one
Gmail receive

Just saying no
may be easy
for them

But with these
black market
discounts I
find it incredibly
hard to bypass

Maybe if they
were under
the influence
of a mind-altering
in my direction
this poem
would be

Kindred souls
making credit card

The black market
would flourish
as consumers
said arrivederci
to boredom

I send my
to my dealer
green eyes
never deny

Being under
the influence
is often

This submission
is down the toilet
at one with my
first narcotic shit
of the day


This declination
is as meaningful
as the content
of this poem

A rejected gift
of self-expression
second-hand words
travel on to the
discarded bin
of wasted effort
what's a man to do
when he feels like
a fool

subjective entry
that wasn't
good enough
to make the cut
or strong enough
to seal the wound
I use these words
to nullify the angst
no eviction without
a confirmation

I still feel
as though I'm
making a difference
I delude myself
I keep on writing

We're all just specks
on this digital format
out for reformation
when apathy is watching


Our thanks to Michael Marrotti for his colorful take on the dilemmas of a writer! About himself, Michael says he is "an author from Pittsburgh, using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he's not writing, he's volunteering at the Light Of Life homeless shelter on a weekly basis. If you appreciate the man's work, please check out his book, F.D.A. Approved Poetry, available at Amazon."


Today’s LittleNip(s):

If you get stuck, get away from your desk. Take a walk, take a bath, go to sleep, make a pie, draw, listen to ­music, meditate, exercise; whatever you do, don't just stick there scowling at the problem. But don't make telephone calls or go to a party; if you do, other people's words will pour in where your lost words should be. Open a gap for them, create a space. Be patient.

The Guardian, 25 February 2010]”
― Hilary Mantel

* * *

Discipline allows magic. To be a writer is to be the very best of assassins. You do not sit down and write every day to force the Muse to show up. You get into the habit of writing every day so that when she shows up, you have the maximum chance of catching her, bashing her on the head, and squeezing every last drop out of that bitch.”

― Lili St. Crow

* * *

“Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite:
"Fool!" said my muse to me, "look in thy heart, and write.”

― Philip Sidney,
Astrophel and Stella



 —Celebrate poetry!

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