A Musing

What is a painter without their muse?
It's an amusing question to ask.
Can we take seriously what is made
without the use of nouns?

People, places, things.
All these to be avoided.
When your musings
Are found at the bottoms
Of pill bottles and the ends
Of spliffs - I know so few
Who are quick to smoke me
Upstanding citizens they are.

I find the giggles in perfect
Little places along the dotted
Line I find myself walking
Late into the night
Arms outstretched
Balancing for the boys in blue

It's a dream I had.
Well, more like a nightmare
It's head heaved into a bed of
Mine eye sore from looking at
Ceiling fans all through the night.
Spinning blades convince me
Of the giants in the sky.
I call out for Sancho -
Only to hear my echo on the walls.
I miss the nouns I used to call home.