O THRESHOLD

                                   

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

Returns.

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 .

BURROWING FIELDS

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!