Story of his Muse

Ranting, and rumbling, seemed better suited for the tumbling

Grunting, in which his stumbling manner would aid his wailing.

And then writing seemed the way to stop the smarting anger that,

pushed Back in struggling, from the raping that their bumbling debauchery

Left his waking. Lost in the numbing, he succumbed to crumbling and took to mumbling to settle debts with his whining. Until he chanced on pen and ink

To commence his fighting, against their shoving; to leave scars in bleeding,

Mouths in moaning, and eyes in deep tearing.

Now, he wields power to settle the arguing,

Uses maiden paper till it is whoring

his stabbing to the preying bodies hawking for a living.




The Mural

Some days I look for a room with a view

Away from eyes that would look.

Some nights I take her up to my room

So I see the view

From the bed she’s wonderful

From there we see everything