When poetry comes calling to you
Never turn your back on it
And don't show that you are cross, either
For it scares her and would send her
Scurrying to the man next to you
Instead,
Let her climb onto your lap
Her knees kneading your thighs
And pearls dropping onto your pants
Until, arching over your body,
She starts to undress
In the meantime, you should, as a rule,
Press her fingers to give her the essential warmth
That turns her Lily white into a brick-red colour
Then,
Your right hand, not knowing what your left hand is
Upto,
Reaches into your pocket
And produces a hanky that when you pull it out
Becomes gigantic and blankets the naked woman
And you bundle her up into a fine bundle
And ****** it into your pocket and standing up from the bench and dusting out your pants, you whistle your way home

love is the moon

it is the one thing that stands out
among a million stars
just the way the ones you love
steal attention from anything else

it can light the darkness
but always has a dark side
a side no one wants to see
but is always present

it controls everything
the minds, hearts, and seas
and is has an undeniable pull
like gravity on everyone

it is stunning and devastating
toxic and otherworldly
and we always give it our attention
just as we would to a full moon in the sky

sometimes it slips away
dipping below the horizon
or being eclipsed from sight
but it is still there, just out of reach

sometimes it seems bigger
closer and brighter
more captivating and enticing than before
but it can still be covered by cloudy days at any moment

love is the moon

beat with craters
though still shining bright
and we all have stardust
running through our veins  


s.s

sure,
the melody
can change.

and,
the beat
gets altered.

but in the end
i think i've heard
every Song.

they go like this:

you're lured in.
because you think,
just for a moment,
it's going to be
Different.

excitedly,
you listen intently.
and,
you are in love,
again.

(quite without noticing)

the poems,
once stagnant and,
Tepid
flow again like
they haven't in
years.

your fire,
thought extinguished,
will find itself
fanned into
conflagration.

and like a
decanter of
that most precious
of ambrosia;

you'll pour
yourself Out.
giving everything
to the song,
until you're
empty.

again.

empty from;
loneliness,
unrequited Love,
and just
not being
refilled.

but you'll keep listening.

the songs never
change themselves.
not really.
not to suite your needs,
anyway.

sure.

someone may
come along and,
add a
Variation
to a
tired tune.

and you might think
that it's a different song.

for a while.

this heart
is a machine.
and as far as
conductors?

i make the worst
of these.

but i know
all it's inner
workings
perfectly.