The Perturbation

I long to borrow the intellect of the enigma—to be—

The man with twice the thought processing power as me.

For perhaps, with a more peculiar identity

I could stop the brain-itching, perfect-pleasantry

Wishful-thinking, heart-having, sentiment-saving,

Rose-bearing, gold-gleaming, midnight-braving,

Love-beaten laudation that laughs and lingers—

The molasses-like longing lodged upon my fingers.   

I would like to delicately admit, sketch on scripture,

That sometimes I feel like a paintless picture,

A mister without a missus, a typewriter without ink

A chef without a kitchen—that kitchen without a sink…

Like a duke without a duchess—breeches without boots

A lion without his pride, or a panda without his shoots.

The feeling doesn’t seem to be resolved with rest,

The perturbation within my head both brings the best

Of spirits and the most amorous of pangs—a sleep-waking

head-twirling, verse-inspiring, lustful-aching. 

    DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com