Blocked

My creativity
is constipated.
I strain
to release
a poem.
I sit
back
in my desk chair,
I try to
relax,
I recite
silent
incantations
as if
saying
the Amidah,
trying to
channel
Apollo,
trying
to yield
more than mere
pellets of
passable
prose.

I switch metaphors,
a poetic
psychopharmacologist
searching for the
right combination
of magic meds.
I stop pushing.
I lie back.
I open my legs.
I beckon Apollo
with pert red curls,
crying cunt,
pale round belly,
and teasing tits.
Like a forest deer
drawn to a salt lick,
he can't resist
the musky scent
between my thighs.
Even a god must
sometimes submit.
He submits to his lust.
He descends from Olympus
and lands close beside me.
He doesn't waste time.
He sees that I'm wet.
He throws himself on me.
I am bait and victim
rolled into one.
He thrusts.
I moan.
I yield.
And as he cums,
filling me with his immortal seed,
precious poems flow from my gasping lips,
surrounding us with ribbons of gold,
petals of roses and carpets of fern.