Halfway to the Bottom of a Scottish Lake

All my muses get offended whenever I recommend them to be runner-up Miss Heaven or nearly an eleven on a hotness scale to ten. Oh my muses get confused when I list things I’d like to do to them if given sound-proof panels and a few gallons of booze. Oh my blues are mostly mindless, my back is mostly spineless, to the lucky ones that find this – I’m too poor to give a prize. All my muses lure me with the glinting in their eyes, the roll of skeptical suspicion, the much sought for deep insight into whatever scene we’re sharing. My muses don’t think its fair of me to treat them like objects, they feel it discredits the cute little thoughts in their small pretty heads. But I never mean it like that, not me! I want my muses, whomever, to see how extraordinary they actually are, to know that such radiant things need the dark of bad lovers or memories like I need more drugs – which is to say, not at all. Not at all, none.


~ by perfectionatrix on November 25, 2011.

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