ITT: invocations to literary muses

Hear me, Muses, and stay not for any persuasion. My lot remains the stewardship of demise, shepherd of wreckages, migrant schrapnel flung in quaking booms, the wellness of the monster left behind by the chiseling erosionary winds. You see the shambling rambling, the wasted energies, the flailings. You know I am unworthy, moreso than most, but still why am I here before you, why am I daring to address you now? Do you not already know me as a broken unfit vessel. A legless golem. Ash in your cook pit. I am nothing and have sought nothing. I was a drone to end all drones, imperceptible, undetectable, the perfect tool. The most useful at times, but always just a tool, never to leave that part of the chart, that compartment's levers and buttons. I did not know I accepted it, but I did know I had stopped fighting it. And I tempted no other dream or purpose but the drone's. I should regard you as a figment of my archaic and distant formal education, ehen things could be learned, anything really, but little developed and nothing cultivated. Lofted in my cohorts sacred social volley, it was clear my trajectory was to dirt and there's no sense in fueling up so errant a machine again. But why then is a husk sent to you? Am I to be a new mythology's fool? The latest savvy idiot? O such acclaim would set me aglow like no addling Americana can, a wattage beyond my feeble wires, so lackluster is my patronage and places of origin, so declined and degraded are we now, and I'm far worse than all of them. But I doubt your purposes are so easily discerned or that I have any power in these things anyways. I come to you saying I know nothing, I seek nothing. I caution to even speak of Godliness or Divinity, so tarnishing and incomplete the talk. I would be fine to never write again and have done that for quite awhile. I had set it all down and said that was that, nothing to say, nothing to develop, rude to imagine a single reader's wasted minute. You know what is in my heart, if such a form still applies. I trust quite little in the world, most my sense that you are not real. And so that may be why I am here, that you are just the channel upon which I fixate and I shall flick and tune in to another soon and return to the murmuring rabble's dimness from where I came and could never exit. But I have done this before, said, "not for me," "too much work," "too late to start," "nothing to gain," "nothing to say" and then why am I haunted by you? Why do you pierce that veil? Why can I not live a simple rabbleton stooge? Why can I not be the obscure and forgotten tool? Am I feeling the subtleties of your experimental design, this ambiguous and then less than ambiguous signaling?

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Purify me, O Muses, and loft me to your purposes. Send me into the heap. I will dredge and pan for you. I will excavate. Haste given to your every wish, I will do what must be done. Send me and save me from unworthy purposes, the inevitable sinking without your gust. I will cut for you, if that is what you want. I will hew them to their bones so posterity will smell their rotten marrow. Or else send me to patch and heal these forsaken, which is all of us, truly. I am a creature of ruin, of apocalypse, so it is nothing if I am extinguished. It only matters that something be built for the future, that goodness' decay be fought. I am the most unworthy and for no reason should you give your divine spirit to me, for certain there are others. But I am registering for the purpose, because I do not know what else to do with portents and confusions sent to me. If there is a purpose or a call, I would surely hear it, because such sounds have been desolate and extinct for my life. We are part of the great flush, the mettlesome subjects squatting on land we didn't own with rights we didn't understand. And it would take a generation or two but we'd be properly conditioned to maximum flexibility, the utmost fluidity available to investors who needed packers, washers, scrubbers, drivers, clerks, greeters, sign-spinners, minders for the whores, accounting and legal teams to ensure the business is moreso a raid, a one-use rocket, and without a doubt, the dutiful interstitial wagies. And when you were a greeter and your plant was ruined by ownership's malfeasance or diplomatic blunder or plague, you must prepare for your new life as a driver or a cleaner of vehicles or an expert technician in vehicular bathrooms, never a concern for the robotics teams when there's the Flushables around, that generation caught between the end of the Baby Boom financial burden and the start of the next stage of late 21st early 22nd Century projects: when the North American Unions and Khanates jockey for computational tilapia territory in the artificial littoral latticeworks connecting California to China, when the real fireworks happen, the real numbers, when there's another economic rise and boom that blows away all others and the ruling classes are quite pleased at this multi-generational effort to finally shuttle around and concentrate and then invest and invest and police and suppress and eventually uplift those peasants into a belt of Singaporean megacities criss-crossing the Anthropocene Earth. But our lot's business is largely to get out of the way of these larger projects. Keep the economic infrastructure buzzing but don't expect some miracle that might live up to any of the social programming sent your way. But afterwards, we'll be flushed away. Most millenials will be too poor to bury themselves in the ground, likely being dissolved in communal pits by woke loved ones shaking jugs of flouridated solutions.

O generous genteel Muses, you have beamed to me a vision, an unexpected advancement and realization, twenty ahead of what I anticipated, as true and clear a gift as can be made obvious to a mortal. I cannot say I know your purpose or pleasure but I will do honor to you. I will build for you each cathedrals in which to dwell in new audiences. Calliope, firstly, humbly, Chieftain Shamaness of all the subordinate sorcerer Muses, there are so many treasures I wish to commission for you, grand, intoxicating, winding tales, emboldened with as deep a spirit as I can access and impress upon the reader in your name, please, greatest Calliope, I wish to build poetry the way city planners built Paris. I wish for these poems we'll architect to glitter and astonish and be known only for their praise to you. I shall need many revisions to get this right, for that I must be up front to all Muses, but especially when I am stirred to grandiose purposes. If we are to be successful, there is much work ahead for us. There is much grueling learning and discovery and trudging to do. There is the chiasmus, learned just the other day. And all the subtle distinctions of human emotions extractable form Ancient lore, aspects of the human condition, some eternal, such as the henpeckery and fickleness of ladies, or else exotic like the intense devotion to artistic excellence that seems unattainable in our pecuniary-conditioned age. Somehow we become commodities that surfaces solidified in our molds. We cannot fathom these Ancient artists anymore than a Combine Stalker could recall sexual intercourse in his prior Homo Sapien life. There are rhythms and antimetabole and musical dimensions we must build within ourselves so that we can build these things in our readers. A poem for War, a poem for betrayal, a poem for something unnameable, I shall hold in reserve anymore particular promises, so that you may fill my ledger with what tasks and purposes suit your divine whims, your scintillant calculations, O Calliope. I shall tell all who inquire, that for all who write, service to the Muses is paramount to your spiritual chemistries, and service to Calliope the most sacred and with the greatest import imposed upon the writer to produce.

>or an expert technician in vehicular bathrooms, never a concern for the robotics teams when there's the Flushables around
Well, I stand corrected. Although if pic related is intended to clean household bathrooms, that does not cover the slightly different shapes of truck cab bathrooms or commercial airlines bathrooms for instance. But I don't know why such a thing would not be invented. A single Boomer could manage several dozen toilet cleaning robots and keep a huge chunk of the toilet market territory to themselves.

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>Paradise Lost: Book 1 (1674 version)
>BY JOHN MILTON
OF Mans First Disobedience, and the Fruit
Of that Forbidden Tree, whose mortal tast
Brought Death into the World, and all our woe,
With loss of Eden, till one greater Man
Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat,
Sing Heav'nly Muse, that on the secret top
Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire
That Shepherd, who first taught the chosen Seed,
In the Beginning how the Heav'ns and Earth
Rose out of Chaos: or if Sion Hill
Delight thee more, and Siloa's brook that flow'd
Fast by the Oracle of God; I thence
Invoke thy aid to my adventrous Song,
That with no middle flight intends to soar
Above th' Aonian Mount, while it pursues
Things unattempted yet in Prose or Rhime.
And chiefly Thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer
Before all Temples th' upright heart and pure,
Instruct me, for Thou know'st; Thou from the first
Wast present, and with mighty wings outspread
Dove-like satst brooding on the vast Abyss
And mad'st it pregnant: What in me is dark
Illumin, what is low raise and support;
That to the highth of this great Argument
I may assert Eternal Providence,
And justifie the wayes of God to men.

From The Iliad:
>“Sing , goddess, the anger of Peleus’ son Achilleus
>and its devastation, which put pains thousandfold upon the Achians,
>hurled in their multitudes to the house of Hades strong souls
>of heroes, but gave their bodies to be the delicate feasting
>of dogs, of all birds, and the will of Zeus was accomplished
>since that time when first there stood in division of conflict
>Atreus’ son the lord of men and brilliant Achilleus.”

From The Odyssey:
>“Tell me, Muse, of the man of many ways, who was driven
>far journeys, after he had sacked Troy’s sacred citadel.
>many were they whose cities he saw, whose minds he learned of,
>many the pains he suffered in his spirit on the wide sea,
>struggling for his own life and the homecoming of his companions.
>Even so he could not save his companions, hard though
>he strove to; they were destroyed by their own wild recklessness,
>fools, who devoured the oxen of Helios, the Sun God,
>and he took away the day of their homecoming. From some point
>here, goddess, daughter of Zeus, speak, and begin our story.”

From Virgil’s The Aeneid:
>“Arms, and the man I sing, who, forced by fate,
>And haughty Juno’s unrelenting hate,
>Expell’d and Exil’d, left the Trojan shore.
>Long labors, both by sea and land, he bore,
>And in the doubtful war, before he won
>The Latian realm, and built the destined town;
>His banish’d gods restored to rites divine,
>And settled sure succession in his line,
>From whence the race of Alban fathers come,
>And the long glories of majestic Rome.
O Muse! the causes and the crimes relate;
>Whar goddess was provok’d, and whence her hate;
>For what offense the Queen of Heav’n began
>To persecute so brave, so just a man;
>Involv’d his anxious life in endless cares,
>Expos’d to wants, and hurried into wars!
>Can heav’nly minds such high resentment show,
>Or exercise Their spite in human woe?”

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...G-Go on Mr. Pynchon.

—O Κλειώ!;—O Ἐρατώ!;—O Eὐτέρπη!;—O Μελπομένη!;—O Πολυύμνια!;—O Τερψιχόρη!;—O Θάλεια!;—O Οὐρανία!;—and O Καλλιόπη, dearest love!:

In thy company I seem kin to Jove,
but of late thy me from cruel shipside hove;
left bereft am I by thy ditching me,
thy unslak'd acolyte and devotee.

My gin-soak'd appetite the bleakest ache,
for which no panacea ever takes,
the pale endlessness of this wannest want,
the weltschmerz blocking up my jouissance...

...and yet with thy by my side I find bliss:
flights of ideas burst forth at thy kiss,
and all the world explodes with life anew,
sapling and sprout shooting up all askew.

I grope with my soul seeking fey caress
and find naught but void and quake in duress;
is this inspiration? subtle ordeal?
is all this a grooming of lyric feels?

I have long long'd life mihi et musis,
but I fear that my efforts are useless,
and my vigor wanes as I sup my gin,
and I ditch my ode—an odious sin!

Kleio, O stirrer of all endeavors constructing historical knowledge, machining Kleiodynamics and Kleiometrics, I kneel at your feet ready for the work required of our tasks and I rejoice in any sense however passing that I might actually please you with a sound record or two of historical acclaim and tumult, of praise sung to events in dire need of notation. There is a great project awaiting our collaboration tomorrow. Thank you for you gifts, for all unrequited insights and acute lucidity. I shall remain in your debt for the foreseeable future.

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Bump

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The fulcrum pivots now, the wick spare. If we are to keep the light, O' Muses, I beg of your aid for the next few days. I must keg the powders of Thalia, Melpomene, Clio and Urania, bind them in the wrought magics of Polyhymnia, so we can spark their stored blessings and send their energies crashing through valences and quanta and forge in that novae a new treasure, something worthy of each, something new, something to resurrect each of you in new minds. There is a going, a parting, a mournful event that must be taken to the pyre, and the pyre itself must be built. Or else the invitation of tornadic flocks of ravenous birds to peal and pluck away and return heavenward with our subject and turn its materials to elemental soaring. O' Thalia, there are so many chores we must attend to, so great the herd we must compute and catabolize. Flourish me, O' resplendent Thalia, so I may furnish the work, the lampoons, the barbs, the daggers. I will tear and rip and gouge. I will carve and ablate. So gargantuan and ominous the tolls of the era, please steady me in its sweepings and ensure I speak only the truth, the worst of which I must court from mellifluous Melpomene. We must dig a giant pit in the programmed matrices of our audience and I will require otherworldly designs and amplitude to fissure any of these Modern layers, and what a fitting quarry for a Muse, the sacrifice of an entire age, the neck of it presented prized. Let us astound and leave aghast these timid and fearful people. Let us stir in them the forgotten instincts. Let us remake for them their dormant humanities, their shut down spirits, their scuttled selves. Dear Clio, guide my exposition of foreign lands and their foreign ways. I wish to only do justice to their stories, their context, the pressures placed upon them, to dissolve and brush away the hackneyed cartoons and lay bare the pure human that was only left there because it was so cleverly disguised, perhaps. Whatever we decide, we must build in the readers the saga, the sense of lurching historical epochs and generational time scales, of visionaries that ponder in centuries, of people who must survive and did survive and find themselves now celebrated contestants of a system that in no way guaranteed much for them. But without missing a beat they are held as its champions. Dearest Clio, do not let me stray, do not let cowardice grip me. Keep me brutal, angry, disgusted and vindictive, for in those energies I will detail the record, in as exacting and persnickety aspects as would make your name glitter anew. O' Urania fill me with your wonders, your geometries, your math, your frame of reference, your context, your spells shall help entice any lot that may listen to these works. O' Muses I am crude and incomplete, but I wish to only bare and bear truth, to render it sufficiently if we must, but magnificently if you find me worthy of such sacred work.

I am caught between Melpomene and Thalia, wishing to build insight and joy in our audiences. I want to rally them to a point, to marshal and mush them to witness the horrors, but I want them to feel powerful too, to not think it's for them to drive by or too daunting or draining to challenge. I want them to see it as I see it, as part of our calling. I want to rebuild the bloodlusts, the fire, the zeal, restore the whirling strangeness inside us, to unveil to each a self that is both theirs and that of beyond, that they are entangled, that they are entanglement, that a godly tendril weaves through them, wispily, wandering, wondering and probing, that such channels are always with us even if they are closed, buried and linguistically occluded, that opening these doors is not an exercise in mindfulness but of registering with the deitic as faithful and sure. Please, Muses, keep me in balance during the reign of terror, keep my phrasing pure, unadulterated, alloyed only by you, a spindle or holiest rebar heated and flattened and sharpened and readied for flaying. Keep my phrasing enticing, cognizant, light, alluring, rewarding, haunting, so that I may forge for you the better work than I could hope for without your aid. I am, without your intervention, enfeeblement, but so blessed I am meteoric.

I enjoy this. Gin is an underrated creative tool in the right weather. I think the Muses must grow rather talkative once they see the bottle is out.

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—O Κλειώ!;—O Ἐρατώ!;—O Eὐτέρπη!;—O Μελπομένη!;—O Πολυύμνια!;—O Τερψιχόρη!;—O Θάλεια!;—O Οὐρανία!;—and O Καλλιόπη, dearest love!:

Firstly accept my apologies for
abandoning thee like so many whores;
please do not think me to be insolent
for having been ginnily somnolent.

I present you my meal as votive gift,
stor'd up in my stomach that it may lift
my words into highest praises of thee:
ephemeral clamoring elegy.

I firstly made bacon, then used its grease
as base for my eggs, delicious as Greece,
white button mushrooms and Starbucks dark roast,
the only things missing whiskey and toast.

But then there is my cake, choc'late and rich,
that little sweet something for which I'd itched;
the other gods frown, and my doctors too,
but indulgence is happily smiled on by you.

That being so, indulge me yet again,
for I weary quick, and dry up my pen...
grant me my hangover and cholia
black, I dwindle and stumble—

Thank you, I'll be back.

o muses
that lurk in the corners
only thy know

a man must pledge
to earns tuned divine
which his voice not

temple of life
eyes blind
i put mortal knee

know no map
feet weary
head ever up

come! come!
dance in twilight
my soul echoes crooked

Some rum has struck me dumbly mum. There is nothing more in me: I'm so sorry, Calliope...!

this is peak incel. you can't get a woman as a muse so you must turn to the occult. kek

Nice invocation, faggot

>a regular, mortal woman
>a muse

Perhaps, the nine dwell in all carnal knowledge, but there's vastly more that interests them. That's largely the focus of this thread, the exercise of communion with these creatures for artistic service to Truth and God. Many good faith efforts have been responded to generously, this goes without saying.

Should any anons prefer to address the Novenary Pantheon in Greek, I would refer to this user's posts and . Or else find the pleasure of these names:
>Kallichore
>Helike
>Eunike
>Thelxinoë
>Terpsichore
>Euterpe
>Eukelade
>Dia
>Enope
I would caution that many of the desperate appeals ITT are quite crude and unbecoming, unseemly even. But the Muses like what they like. One has to wonder, in our era, how much their attention may be summoned. They have much to give and perhaps a tinge of the vindictive to pour out onto a world that neglected them, that left their entanglement with their splendor unconscious, a claw of frayed bailing wire. There is perhaps a phenomena unusual to the godless age such as ours when the spirit world seeks to make dramatic examples of our hubris, Moderns being characters in a broader theater, examples. If you can make some sort of entreaty to the spirit world, establish some bargain or wager or Tai Pan relationship, you may be so ensnared, spellbound, caught up in whatever thing you conjured. There are many doofuses and oafs on /x/ who seem to encounter their equivalent Loki-fandom as some sort of transgressively associative alternative personality that at times runs ripshod over the conscious materials born to their skull by default. But it seems like you can also cultivate this habitation, entice the pollinators and caterpillars and not locusts and flies. Most of all, to me, is the dignity, the tenderness, the fear of realizing, oh dear, it's real, they're real. This whole time, this whole sickly age, they were strumping their laurels and tambourines and amphoras of lamb oil in languid boredom. It would seem that they intervene quite a bit more than the Abrahamic God set out to normalize in his cosmic architectures that deferred heavily to our autonomy and the fruitions thereof, suffering or not, everyone quite damnable. The Muses listen for the beseeching, but we must do for them much more than appear as beggars. We must propel ourselves to such momentum that they are seduced enough to stay with you and see to the completion of larger work. We must accept there may be much form and filigree given to them, so in debt is our age.