Saturday, November 26, 2011

Been Meaning To Write A Happy One

Often stumbled, often finding
oneself suddenly bound
by oneself, such that
can't even write a Happy Poem.

Well, no more I say, this is it:

Having been chopped off hands
we scurried across the feet of all accusers.
Kicked rats outta their homes, then
postured as rodents in a sewer.

Why are we speaking in plural terms?
Wiley or trying to appear supernatural?
Well, it's because there are supposed
to be two hands to any given human.

No connection to the brain, we swear,
we're kind of anarchists.
But if you see us at a party
we're only there for your womanly kisses.

You come to us and cry about the exploding world
not noticing the beautiful origami universe
we just folded for you.

That's right, you laugh
unforced, uninitiated
causing our phalanges
to tremble.

We come out of the darkness into daylight
every single time you experience recall.
And we sit there, in the pockets of your favorite trenchcoat
so bloody excited to finally get to see again the mall.

You're laughing, unforced, uninitiated
we're trembling, brainless
just squirting out of the confines of your pockets
and nobody knows!

Everybody thinks you're a Joker!
With trick gadgets up all your sleeves.

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