Why of adventures more than of green spectacles?

“We’re bored. You’re boring us!” The muses whine
I explain that poetry isn’t all sex and drugs and rock n roll
Their eyes darken. One turns on the television
Snorts and cackles intertwine with Richard and Judy

I hate Richard like vitriol, Judy the same
The muses know this. They are drowning in a hog roast
One is drinking gravy from the boat
Brown syrup flooding the cheap glitter of her robe

Bones are flung like winged boys
Falling to pieces on the ceiling, amid belches and spit
As I cower in the corner, eyes glued to paper
Ignoring the challenges, the blood and the pop culture noose

That they offer. I focus on my topic, a pair of old green spectacles
Green spectacles. Green, like grass…
It is too late. The muses have lit my fire. I cannot focus.
They dance like orangutan saints in the flames

While a perfect figure sprawls, tattooed across my sofa
Scraps of cloth condensate against her breasts and thighs
A mesh of arms writhe, screaming the names of several cult heroes
Whilst others sink their teeth into a game of Tekken.

They are like an army of porcelain, rose and technicolour
And my spectacles splinter as the ritual hits it’s peak
One by one they approach, a thousand
Dead men in their eyes. And I marry it. I am inspired.