Mutterings maybe Muse

by on August 12, 2015 :: 0 comments

Bluebird calls,
his raspy sultry tones,
almost teasing,
just there,
right there
there,
Ohh there
I..
words spin,
wink as if stars out of reach.
From dust to burning
burning deep,
burning red,
I stand meek, feet toeing frozen earth
longing for green grass,
flowing manes or just flow,
Spluttering mutters – he calls.
Stripped to inner core,
empty, half full
or momentarily sane?
only just seeing for sake of
seeing but not seeing,

Bluebird’s calling,
perched on dead wood
calling,
I write, hear
his words
necking inner voice – this voice, amongst
his whores
the barmen,
fucking madmen,
penned in his lines
couplets, verse
puffing last fags.
His gesturing wing beckons
my parched lips cradling inner wars,
pours another JD as if mothering
this poet flying half full – just,
gulping in
spinning words
spinning – trying.

editors note:

Bluebird of happiness or missing muse? Maddening for all purveyors of verse. – mh clay

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