when a lost muse is no excuse, when the mundane and the profane are away on summer holiday, and you are currently on the divine’s 'u **** - no write list'
nonetheless the itch in the private spaces is driving you crazy, write a poem, write a poem, in the way a grandmother (or a mother to a grown child) whiny nags, its a nice day, go outside and play with a strange man, whatcha ya gonna do, the walls are all painted, and the good bad boys are out of town, all with the other bad good girls, who got there first, but we will write of ******-rings and other crazy songs you sing
it is not important you the reader understand every verse, like Patton said, "it only matters that I know,"
which line is a joke, which around your neck is your customized yoke, which is why: plaintive wail to no avail, the regret that never can be sated, the frustration cratering inside the chest, which is just, (and unjust) just enough to make a semi-satisfactory smile upon the lips appear
whose lips? who cares? as long as you don't have to hear me sing my poetry but hear me smiling at the power of whimsy writing and the return of my no longer muzzy^
Ms. Minx A. Muse-me <£> 2:13pm
a poem in reserve for you, the Canadian girl ^muzzy - groggy, blurred