Small poem-note from last year.

Whilst cleaning my room I lifted a tearaway patch of paper, a light-blue rip with scribbled ink from last year's Fringe Festival guide. Written about 7 months ago. I realise now I was mad with the way I thought, I liked it.
...
"Yes I was touched by the muses,

but not tortured, not held

They ground their hips against my throat,

my arms, my tounge and my collarbones
And in unision, came on my face

in a spasm or virility and unbridled
madness, joy, pain and passion

whence, breathelessly they collapsed
And will lay quivering in my palms

'til my las beating breaths. "