Why have they ***, have they---
They are yet to be---
Songstresses from the seas
where no man’s eye can see
She is ape-like & lethargic---
Snoring & snoozing

Where no man sees the models change---
Their eyes plucked out as she bathes
The mighty chav douches her **** regularly
She is my Hannah in her grave in Portugal
of all places in the wide open world
for her red mouth to open---
Yes, I want to be near her gilded sunlight---
Someone lying beneath her Jeep---

Hannah off in the woods
w/ a local boy or preferably girl---
Meaghan gone to seed
& sour ***** taste like Chinese dumplings in her mouth---
She sings the sweetest song at sunrise
Abandoned on the road

I used
to use
the use
of you's
for
your muses
..
used
to
use
till I abused it

Red lips curl watching Earl Grey unfold in clouds inside a cup
and brown eyes flicker over long fingers folded around porcelain.
She is a carefully written poem on ivory paper, royal blue
ink blooming on a page, kissed and tied with a ribbon.
She is a timeless woman, inhabiting a thousand eras.
Her sharp eyes have outlived the courts of many kings,
have seen revolutions unfold and succeed and be shattered;
she has watched fights started over her in warm saloons and
soapboxed revolution on Boston Common, smiling dangerously.
She is the brightest of all muses.
He is in his element, shining bright with eyes like starlight,
a compliment to the beauty he saw first of everyone.
I feel a soft adoration for what she is to him, and think how
that, really, is poetry.

Thence simple bards, by simple prudence taught,
To this wise town by simple patrons brought,
In simple manner utter simple lays,
And take, with simple pensions, simple praise.
Waft me, some Muse, to Tweed’s inspiring stream,
Where all the little Loves and Graces dream;
Where, slowly winding, the dull waters creep,
And seem themselves to own the power of sleep;
Where on the surface lead, like feathers, swims;
There let me bathe my yet unhallow’d limbs,
As once a Syrian bathed in Jordan’s flood—
Wash off my native stains, correct that blood
Which mutinies at call of English pride,
And, deaf to prudence, rolls a patriot tide.
From solemn thought which overhangs the brow
Of patriot care, when things are—God knows how;
From nice trim points, where Honour, slave to Rule,
In compliment to Folly, plays the fool [. . .]

Me, whom no Muse of heavenly birth inspires,
No judgment tempers when rash genius fires;
Who boast no merit but mere knack of rhyme,
Short gleams of sense, and satire out of time;
Who cannot follow where trim fancy leads,
By prattling streams, o’er flower-empurpled meads;
Who often, but without success, have pray’d
For apt Alliteration’s artful aid;
Who would, but cannot, with a master’s skill,
Coin fine new epithets, which mean no ill:
Me, thus uncouth, thus every way unfit
For pacing poesy, and ambling wit,
Taste with contempt beholds, nor deigns to place
Amongst the lowest of her favour’d race.

Wondering
in foreign streets
I find myself
engulfed
with muses
aching to find
themselves
on paper
in another
world

I had a seance
with the night sky
the other day
and I felt my
soul exorcised
by the muses
as they quenched
my thirst
with sweet sinful
nocturnal juices
that diluted
my inhibitions

I have exhausted my muses
till they ****** the life
out of my hands
and tortured
me with
bottled
thoughts
left inside
me