you will only listen to music drunk and pretending to be blind, you will only listen to music pretending to be blind, but not pretending to be drunk, you will only listen to music encouraging closed lid shutters... thus your surroundings will transform, you will use the keyboard in pitch black as totem of stenotype... you will close your eyes and appreciate what music gave you: angelic wings outside the realm of dreams; you will not care for videos of fake insertion of what can be imagined with music, that michael jackon video of night of the living dead will not be your only interpretation.*

and to my muse i turn,
who’s hysteria
turned laughter for applause,
who’s laughter i cherish,
a fox’s cry of orientation,
i too laugh my fox
in the day,
where meaning is lost or non-existent
we can only grasp onomatopoeia,
as i said: joy is far from eloquent expression
given the ha ha ha...
it sounds like comfort and travesty... almost...
but the fox in man laughed in the erotica
mania... beer in and whiskey in...
combusting gases out...
oh muse.... should the shadow of the moon’s
half residual face blemish you...
i will carve you as the perfection you
stole from me once more:
pairing prior to the romans in the king’s
verse from virgil's aeneid / rebirth of troy as rome.
laugh more my muse!
i want the same giggles above the crescendo of repeat,
while we're morally apart!
(someone's sister... could have been her mother...
muses are never pretty canvases, solidified
by aphrodites' apple
with hera and athena marking the scores...
well... not all of us died on the crucifix
and later dangled as pearl in silver
on the neck...
but some of us did... and laughed at nero
who later made torches out of us -
oddly enough my cats are annoyed that i'm
more entertained than them, even when snoozing.)