July 13, 2016


The tidewater  rises and never returns
Tickled pink , forward leaning  and foraging footmark ,clothed
with the fuller’s earth ,
And fulminated ,on a sebaceous funnel swims the tide .

Furl up in a farrago of funereal and funky fest of funfair ,
Belching the cascade ,
And the tidewater of ateliery rises in cadence and never

And like fusillade ,fuses into empty space ,
O threshold,o threshold , be my humble bay
With thy gavel and gaiety , I can strike  a tide,
Floating on a buoy and never returns .

O that genes ,chromosomes ,bereft by flotsam,
That gelignite ,missing in the rib ,makes the tidewater
Tick ,
That watermark, a quintessence of a gladiator and a mahomet                                                       
A generic brandish ,gerrymandering of the giddier grit of giggled pink .

That they can dream and they cannot muster,
That they can run and they cannot win ,
Teaches my threshold to run, tis the bulls eye to fill the
Burping drive ,that exit shall not alarm.

O threshold ,be my humble bay ,
Till the tidewater rises and never returns .

Bullish hell mucks, a malodorous ,a paean sung
like a lullaby  ,
To unsit in a kerfuffle , ill-gotten bemused senses
of the lost generation ,
the true endangered species of the burrowing fields
Stuck like  the gizzard ,thrashed at the gibbet ,
the gallows desecrates remorse ,
And the Gestapo massacre of hell gnaws at
 the soul of the morning ,

They gnaw at the burrowing fields ,grumpier ,and gruesome
Glutinous ,
Grostequeries of the guilles and the guilotines,gobble up the
Earth’s treasured trove ,
Shifting the goalposts to gybe its gymnasticism.

Buccaneer ‘s piggy back  froth pizzazz pie eyed picadors ,picaresquely
Peals a pell-mell ,perfunctory ,peremptory perforation  of time as
open philter ,
And the ages peregrinate in lieu of gone-pear-shaped  perestroika ,
Alas , the parking ticket , no more illicit and the papyrus was long written
For millennia ,
As the paradeground  of the bucaners of freedom .

At the barley of the hangman’s noose and hanging valley terror,
The happy-go-lucky harbor , still kept mute harrows-n-trenches
And the fields melted , butchered  in broaddaylight , bushwacked
and gone for a burton ,
Run away nonchalance ,that buttonhole could come to the rescue,
I plead thee o buttonhole do not buzz off;may thy harmonica be played
And given the pugilism ,it deserves !
Thrust in your harpoon and may thy spirit be worshiped!

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