disarmed by a crippled madman…
with a gentle kiss on the cheek…
(outside a gallery, a Rose sends out
empathetic perfume)
flippin your minnow while being penetrated in your
KY’ed, little weepy, hairy, runny brown spot,
even in the absence of her, she can provoke the needle into me
you don’t choose the muse, the muse chooses you,
my muse is inspiring these words, feelings, phrases,
renaming my muse, the Little Hipster Imp,
a fair skin, beauty, immature, narcissistic,
as imps and muses often are
she calls herself Crazy, not crazy at all,
maybe psychotic, maybe scared, petrified,
nervous about every thing or maybe selfish,
a cowered, a fool, fiercely independent,
committing to no-one and nothing at all
hiding tears behind laughter,
trapped in absurd obscurity by the Other,
standing in her shallow shadow of
disinterest, indifference, insecurity
parting your pink lips, inviting everyone in,
you may have many lovers but you just lost the One
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