I need a muse to help me start writing poetry again.
A naked one.
I was thinking of how I could adapt Cavafi’s Απολείπειν ο Θεός Αντώνιον into my own life.
Instead of the glorious Alexandria it would be one of those sun-baked dusty Mexican hell-hole towns you see in Westerns.
And instead of a troupe playing beautiful music it would be one of those annoying one-man band people, banging the drums and blowing the same five off-key notes on the trumpet