the beautiful muse
beauty beyond the restrictive nature of language
Woe is me, unable to describe such radiance. the problem of a wordsmith.

conclusions lead to new inspiration
but conclusion, leads forced end
to eternal broken wheels
The Beauty of language
stifled by despotic definitions

The Muse has my soul
she squeezes my *******
and won't let go until I write her songs

explosions of spastic action
muscles under the command
of a proverbial *****.

life mundane,
like an addiction
music getting sweeter
and life around brings only apathy

all that matters
is the swaying hips of the muse
the heat of her groin
the atmospheric morphing of the air around her
whispering every word that is to be written
her hands over mine as I type
her breath on my cheek

she visited me not as a first
Witman,
Ginsburg,
Burroghs,
Kerouac,
from all she demanded verse and chapter

from me,
from them,
centuries old games.

for the false, convict, predilection for insane mumblings to cease into a void of hell, Nero indulges in the waters of the lethe, to forget life, the void, god.

to burn our cities, temples, is to drink, but to eat.
eat, mind you, the key to our temples, and dare not drink, least burn thy gods before unlocking their secrets, delectable enlightenment.

eat, and let the void's blackness of death be lit with the magnificent magentas, mauves, and cyans,
hue of inconceivable reaches of the potential of empty.
the psychedelic ****** frolic and feel,
pain sensual and dominating.

to the banks with Nero and his abyss of black,
let the cruel absence be filled with the blood of Nero, and the spectrum of our minds.

eject that horrid emperor for your self and your self's liberation from yourself. the ego, burns with Nero, in the fiery waters of the lethe.