It was much more mundane than what the muse repeated, whispering close so the speaker wouldn’t hear.
Did he stand steel-toed, leathered from foot to face, reciting some gilded poet’s finery? “Goldstruck.” What the fuck old man?
I've long lost several frequencies, frequenting the stage ‘longside heavy-handed drummers drinking to excess metal crashes and clangs. So “old truck” rang out ready to be mined from wax, bedrock, brain.
We never know we need new words to describe the Aztecs, drenched in the sweat of the sun. Or Frost before writing “So Eden sank to grief.” Until mishearing ears sift what they want from the clearing silt.
Left there glowing, an oddly paired amalgam born in synapse, electrically conducted. Goldstruck, adjective: With a star’s explosive debris on our hands. - S. Jackson.