The muse, which is to say, all these taboos.

She bop. Shave ’em dry. “Just a little bit

of juice/ keeps him in line.” If these are blues

they’re the sloppy kind. Fit for a misfit

pervert rinse, perhaps. Any damn long song

that longs that gone, that wrong, and still wants more,

is dearth the trance. Any thing marred and long

from pain and cocaine, muse. Your bedroom floor

took our abuse blues. Little bit of juice

sung down low. “No, chow down/ on my downtown,

goy.” Fit for a squirt, I’ll blurt, from between

your thighs. Croons tunes, titties. “Juice will seduce.”

“Go south and get me some more.” “Cum and drown

me” ————–The scratch of a needle drop, I mean.