Swinging,
the motion swerve,
thrust of gut, butterfly
figures play pendulum waiting,
no crash.
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Swinging,
the motion swerve,
thrust of gut, butterfly
figures play pendulum waiting,
no crash.
no crash,
tense commitment
to a static flow, slow
rhythm enjambment, as we know
a breeze
a breeze
kicks up the spray
at the surf’s edge where
the seagulls feed upon wave-tossed
morsels…
morsels
nibble chomp snack
tastee tidbits of scraps
words written on a page of sand
gone
sand gone,
castles carried
melting to the sky, beams
glint granules like rememberance
surf-watched
surf watched
carefully by
whole flocks of seabirds waiting...
dinner time approaches, menu please?
seafood....
Seafood
for the picnic
on the beach, laughter rings,
children sing, how good to be here,
alive!
alive—
breathing, moving—
the yellow eyes opened—
it lurched to its feet and screamed—
“Monster!”
"Monster!"
She cried. "You lie!"
Said he, "Never, not once
In my life, have I monsed; not once,
I say!"
“I say,
Old chap would you
Just happen to have a
Wee spot of Grey Poupon Mustard?
Jolly!”
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Jolly,
large inflation
of cheer, rolling smile
rumbles and bellies soaked in humor,
shaking.
shaking
and shivering
syrinx the reed remembers
her tale her sisters the pan plays
the song
The song
Of the oppressed
is the sonorous ground
beneath high trebles of carefree
singers
Singers
Ululating
As the coffins lower
Their voices rise to silence birds
Like guns
like guns
words can kill you—
all depends upon whom
carelessly handles “unloaded
weapons”
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