Gem Curvaceous

Tomorrow, I promise more poetry.  More.  Wrote one today, that’s three in the last three days.  I’ve had enough of expected’s—  patterned mechanicals.  How does that work, look at the gears, me sipping another glass, that’s what causes the last fault-jitter.  But I do it again.  What’s wrong with me, this writer—  I’m a writer.  And I’ll stop there.  Be safe and quiet and under a professional bed, staple and file cabinet anesthesia.  Blitzkrieg jumps and I cover my ears but I’m forced to talk, the stooped transaction.  That’s fine, I invited.  4th, morrow, more marrow from the verser.  How would that work, stretch where my suppressions lurk.  Department chairs, my beloved bellow twerps—