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

I’ve been busking about since young and fair
The atmosphere from onlookers, like skating on thin air
So unconventional, prior to the old smacking ways
That’s how I’d spend my entire waking days
Melodic riffs, dancing over bass lines
Harmonising daily, to some lonesome feeling ballads
Playing finger-style guitar, without any speeding **** hazards
            
Along the boardwalks of Venice Beach
In unlikely places, that you’d ever encounter or reach
A folksy blues musician, you can’t wait to hear
Independent, from a money-making machine, that’s so clear
A young black musician, singing ‘bout life’s rights and wrongs
With an aching intimacy, strings are strummed, to original songs
            
The overall effect is something like a blend
Of other musicians, with a depth and subtlety
More suited to the stage, than a street with a dead end
While the busking experience is fundamentally a freedom, luckily
Still taking a fading, battery-powered amp, with heaps of torque
Along with a flattop, down to the busy LA boardwalk
            
I think the best thing you learn from being downtown
Is how to be really optimistic, while still being on your own
Busking was like practicing with a metronome
It started pulling on a few chords, like not ever knowing a safe home    
Then, thoughts of ones life coming to an end, my tick-tock time
Then, I go back to playing a song, people tossing me, a silver dime
I imagine, how it would sound, playing along with four in a band
I’ve never really been dealt, a very good poker hand
Trying to re-create myself, like an over paid, auto tuned, music star
Well, as much as I could, with just a worn out, acoustic guitar
            
They say, I picked up the guitar at seven
At first trying to play lap style, just keepin’ it even
Because, I couldn’t reach across my scar torn body
Early childhood lessons, gave me a foundation in blues
After that, I wasn’t taught nothin’ by nobody
I just kept playing like that, what did I have to lose
I could learn by ear, until I heard the rings at the checkout
It would take a while, but I’d figure it out, what they were all talking
about.

Went to the mailbox on Sunday morning  
Nothin’ ever written, never a hint or warning  
Expected a normal letter  
Got a blues death letter instead  
Had a black strip, these types, not so widespread  
He liked to have a drink of liquor  
Same amount as any other blues guitar picker  
But not enough to become so dead  
Blues and whiskey, just go together  
Might as well be said  
 
You see, I was born broke  
You had a chance with life  
But you did nothing with it  
At least you got that, from the blues  
But you only loved one thing  
And that one thing was whiskey  
In the end, it made you blue  
 
Came home with blonde locks, one evening  
Never spoke, stray again, he’s leaving  
Praying for a lasting marriage  
Got that letter instead  
Man had a dark side  
These types, wanting more thighs spread  
He liked a sing, a ballad, a music hall singer  
Same amount as any other blues guitar picker  
But not enough to become so dead  
Blues and whiskey, just go together  
Might as well be said  
 
You see, I was born broke  
You had a chance with life  
But you did nothing with it  
At least you got that, from the blues  
But you only loved one thing  
And that one thing was whiskey  
In the end, it made you blue