Next Time, When You Love Me, #190

The hand that shakes,
that stands open to chance
can make a mistake.
Therefore a heart breaks
each time it touches
the hand that shakes,
knowing it can’t make
the wrong right, that its clutch
can make a mistake.
We’ve built a culture staked
on a false trust, the crutch
of the hand that shakes.
We’ve created these fakes,
soothing rituals. As such
we’ve made a mistake.
Build your kingdom on who partakes
of the wine kept in the hutch.
The hand that shakes
can make a mistake.

Life doesn’t move.
It stands stock still.
But poetry moves.
It’s words groove
around the page with skill.
Life doesn’t move,
What with the houses you’ve
bought and all the bills.
But poetry moves.
It let’s you remove
or add a word. But still,
life doesn’t move.
Without revision nothing improves.
But language is a fine pill,
so poetry moves.
Its wonder proves
to be a greater thrill.
Life doesn’t move.
But poetry moves.

The brain is fine
that is not yet full,
that can turn on a dime,
dance on a pinhead, shine
like a diamond, stay supple.
The brain is fine
which can combine
disparate images, couple
differences, turn on a dime.
With neurons that can wind
their way around the bull,
the brain is fine.
A master work of design
that abhors the dull,
that can turn on a dime,
that can reach the divine
through the meat of a skull.
The brain is fine
that can turn on a dime.

The look between you and your granny
what you share in a coy smile
is uncanny.
You keep it from me and your nanny
all the while.
The look between you and your granny.
When I smack your fanny
the way you won’t get hostile
is uncanny.
It skipped your brother Danny
but travels across the miles,
the look between you and your granny.
When you’re yelling “unhand me”,
your vigor and guile
is uncanny.
Your moods, Annie,
your presence worthwhile.
The look between you and your granny
is uncanny.

Please don’t leave with such glee,
a gloating satisfaction,
next time, when you love me.
Please don’t make a bee
line for the door in reaction,
please don’t leave with such glee
just because you see
my attraction,
next time, when you love me.
Can’t we both agree
it’s a rude infraction?
Please don’t leave with such glee.
Consider the debris
you leave behind, my heart undone,
next time, when you love me.
I’m wailing like a banshee,
silent like a nun.
Please don’t leave with such glee
next time, when you love me.

Please don’t leave with such glee,
while I stay open to chance,
next time, when you love me.
Please don’t make the bee
sting as it touches.
Please don’t leave with such glee
just because you see
a mouse in your clutches,
next time, when you love me.
Can’t we both agree
it’s a false trust, a crutch.
Please don’t leave with such glee.
Consider the debris
of soothing rituals and such,
next time, when you love me.
I’m wailing like a banshee,
off the wine of this hutch
Please don’t leave with such glee
next time, when you love me.

The hand that shakes
in gloating satisfaction
can make a mistake.
Therefore the heart breaks
in a perfect reaction
to the hand that shakes,
knowing it can’t make
a deeper attraction,
but can make a mistake.
We’ve built a culture staked
on rude infractions
of hands that shake.
We’ve created a fake
landscape of hearts undone,
we’ve made our mistakes.
Build our kingdom on who partakes
of temptation like a nun.
The hand that shakes
can make a mistake.

Life doesn’t move
when you flash it a coy smile.
But poetry moves.
It’s words groove
all the while.
Life doesn’t move,
What with the house you’ve
broken when you got hostile.
But poetry moves.
It let’s you remove
the distance and the miles.
Life doesn’t move.
With no revision nothing improves
despite your vigor and guile.
But poetry moves.
Its wonder proves
your presence worthwhile.
Life doesn’t move.
But poetry moves.

The look between you and your granny
through generations is stock still
and uncanny.
You keep it from me and your nanny,
move around it with great skill,
the look between you and your granny.
When I smack your fanny
between paying the bills,
it’s uncanny.
It skipped your brother Danny
and all your cousins, but still,
the look between you and your granny.
When you’re yelling “unhand me”,
your language like a pill
is uncanny.
Your moods, Annie,
are nothing but a thrill.
The look between you and your granny
is uncanny.

The brain that is not yet full
that can turn on a dime,
abhors the dull.
Like skin it stays supple,
like a diamond, shines,
the brain that is not yet full.
In it, disparate images couple,
false and real combine.
It abhors the dull
the mundane and the bull.
It reaches for the divine,
the brain that is not yet full.
By the meat of the skull,
with neurons that can wind,
they too abhor the dull
days push and pull.
What a masterwork of design,
the brain that is not yet full,
that abhors the dull.

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Author:

A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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