Greetings to My Muse

Don’t take that tone with me.
Your voice looks like
a bruised fist
that’s grown pathetic and
shrill from too many
hours barking at your
mutt for growing thin and
bald with mange. Who
wakes you at pitch black
noon so you can step
in her freshly laid shit
and curse while you
feed her a warm can
of raw, rotten cow liver.

Don’t try to intimidate me.
I’ve seduced, bedded,
fucked and murdered prettier
lies than the charming
gobs of spittle you are dribbling
on my stylish suede shoes.

Don’t pout, please don’t.
I can see right through
you and into the apartment
across the road where a
little boy contemplates
his first pubic hair
and dreams of a life
just like yours.

Here’s ten bucks. Now
fuck off.