Live from the 2018 Rookie-Muse Draft

There’s nothing new:
the too-smooth muses
on review
look spooked, obtuse,
defused, or loose.
Their moons miscue;
their tunes fall mute.
They spruce. They rouge.
They ooze and stew
like better muses’
residue.

Debut such spoofs?
Such gloomy shrews
and bootless floozies?
Choose some snooze-muse,
snooty-shooed,
or some blue, boozed muse
tattoo-bruised?
A Muse of Boo-Hoos?
Muse of Tombs?
The Muse of Fruity
Douche Perfumes?

Not you, not you,
not you or you,
and not some prude
who broods on booty,
not these boobs,
these clueless ewes
and two-bit groupies
who get schmoozed
all loosey-goosey
by lewd hooch
in dudes’ Jacuzzis.

Shrewd and ruse-proof,
I’ll refuse
the whole huge prune-
juiced loon-deluge.
Enough. I’m through
with all of you.
I’ll muse myself.

I always do.

       *

Then cues this high
noon bliss-tycoon
to blow a kiss
and woo a blooming
through the room.
A true danseuse,
no ingénue:
in lieu of hooey
she has moves.
Half aloof
and half a coup,
she cruises through
the stooge revue
on dewy hooves
and subterfuge.

I’m due a muse
whose news will chew me,
one whose coos
confuse me truly,
one who fuses
crude with beauty,
one whose lube
unscrews the truth
and soothes me loose
from dues and duty.

Muse, excuse me,
I want you
whose voodoo skews me.
Boon me, swoon me,
honeymoon me.
Disabuse
and pas de deux me.
Screw the queue—
these goons can sue me—
I want you
to finely tune me.