poetry critical

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A Muse Me/You

sharp metaphors shower down  silver bullet stilettos
click click clicking on polished concrete tablets, wet
alive revived current new ways of  blood-letting it all go, baby can you hear it?
I can hear rats tat tat on  window pains cold forged barbs aimed  
at steely-hearted souls and hard-hearted heels who are our muses
courted, vied for like  ‘(my) first draft (is finished, baby) players’
well known for skills honed in fields strewn with fine minds
that just need a poke to explode heart for art’s sake  
tough oft rough traded woo pitching muses wanted to keep full
acid-tongue tipped styluses, etching more muse infused, scripted venom
we demand all their waking / sleeping sensations to be directed at us
for the hours we need to begin breathing on our own again.
they are a fix, a tool, night school refresher course- not obsessions  
we know where they begin and we control their ends- grains of sand
in our heads, sometimes beds hoping for cultured pearls not just stains
mental quickies desiring to inspire should read the caveat lector line
before they sign, because there are no guarantees of kindness of any kind  just a merry go-go around
of peeling back facades, blaring reflections of each other, virtually
all over, the closer the better, pages soaked with money shots don’t reveal the players
so they are reusable like stock images to which we all own the rights
muse, amuse with no promises of privacy just emotional piracy
high jacked for high times then be set free willingly with no regrets
just on to the next for us both.  
Your tableau is waiting

27 Feb 07

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the entire twisted metaphor is just great writing.  high energy, with nice turns of phrase from beginning to end.
 — pyrrhonian