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day of reckoning beetles to broccoli coalitions of sardines marched forth from grave expansions of pity larch larch they cry ordinately waiting for the coming of the clock his ticking and tocking and jingling muses will offer all solace and great heaps of mangoes free for the taking the drake meanwhile ponders a cadaverous smile thinking mayhap the beetle gazes too far into the sun its thermometer collapsing it returns to the trenches wailing about time lost the clock knows nothing of this as time cannot be lost it flies it flies before it is ever found muchless lost and speaking of gorillas which we weren't i affirm the ill will of antelope gesturing to you all that father will be home soon and he will be cross thundering about his boots and botty and bacon for both who will bring father bacon when he has not brought it home himself who will weep for televisions their tubes tied who will care for the wandering packs of homeless needle thin dinosaurs extinct yet still registered to vote is that right? is it kosher? ask the rabbi. he will come to our home and bring ink pads of bank tellers laden with honey and potatoes instant mashed potatoes the kind with butter already added and mantis too bitter to pray the package deal the wire taps the secret service coming round for tea for spices and gold and frankincense they will dance like mad parrots drunk on motor fumes and shopping carts the sea sets like gelatine but time is not yet home cracker for my love lemur lemur whither dost thou wander the bust of roosevelt's come calling bringing algebra mince and strife the car drives through the sun and yet the occupants are cold lemur lemur put the kettle on the mundane knights abroad with banisters brandished like salad forks shining in morning rain with kumquats cakes and radishes while mum is fast glued to the kale lemur lemur its late lets call it candy kumquat she slid her serpentine tongue from his mouth the fire crackled behind them in the blaze of the sun outside radioactive horses darted past the windows of glazed sugars every confection a reminder of karma's imminent death a beckoning moment of nothing the realization that all is lost and therefore salad who would be her next victim who would be her giraffe the doctor next door performing oral surgery as we speak the carpenter hammering away even at this very moment who is to say religions have been founded on less and yet the boat sank like hard cheese in thin gravy and it becomes moot things have already changed into lockers of beetles and they are quite deaf the matter of extinction and why politics must patronize the poor as it came into focus the towering man made icons of soot, the stegosaurs stumbling spitting money and ticker tape to herald the arrival of mundane cyborgs who must do something something about the wharf rats the wharf rats who, on any given moment may capitulate about the politics of marmalades and give tickets out to those too comsuption bound to flee and the puzzle loses pieces the clock looses time and the fat lady sings sings sings sings a song of six thermoses a plaid one a sienna one one puce and the others simply too mind bogglingly elephant to comprehend unless of course you have a license only the wharf rats have those and who is so bold to listen to their belching cacophony of eggplant to even try? oars from glass bottomed boats and pockets full of rose petals we sally forth to yet another day a templar picnic a place of feast and fancy that no one attends since no one bothered to invite a soul no friends, templars never knights with icons of soot and never having even met a stegosaurus, much less received any of his money a favourable review eye sockets full of tango pudding the leper gave his speech featuring the qualities of the hygiene of igneous anteaters and more likely, their ultimate demise at the hands of evil chiropractors who need malice and thumbtacks how else will they hang their posters of farrah fawcett? how else will they tie the tongues of traitorous soap? who but satan could conceive such hilarity with nothing but a matchstick and gum? beelzebulb your time has come and gone on the back of a slow moving train made entirely of squash and sausage in calgary it is raining the tears of thousands of people turned back for sainthood deemed too popular to trust to the public the saint of scabs the saint of shoes too tight the saint of parking meters with a bit of extra coin they never made it into the books nor will they their pinkies floating in jars at some chemist's they will live in the faded pockets of denim jeans worn by forgotten pop singers do not weep but rejoice it is their lot and at 5 for 20 pounds, a good buy dead to the shin ocular nerves being as they must robotic hands twisted out the receptors and glared about with them today looks like pianos it declared and replaced its eyes in their sullen sockets it paused for effect glanced to the penguin who accompanied it and stammered penguin who happened to be deaf nodded sagely to feign interest turning a weary beak to the world 'football' stated the flightless fowl 'soccer' retorted the machine their differences had been noted the lines drawn with this they went to battle each wielding the weapon of their choice a copy of the new york times for the metal a coat hanger twisted into the shape of parsley for the bird the blows were never to come though for as they approached one another they were struck by a passing lorry delivering adult diapers to the elderly the moral of the story is obvious a pillow is indeed soft unless it is not false starlight emancipates lepers witches burn in fires like fat sausages in the spit it is spring and the picnics begun the inquisition skipping about merrily door to door gathering widow's mites for crippled ocelots damnable creatures ocelots they with their calculators and handsets telemarketing their own imminent extinction with a gleeful sympathy all for a day's dollar or a dollop of porridge, depending on the morning you catch them slice and dice and splice and what do you get? another politico and jesus in the net so toss your change into the pan you only encourage them into poverty the ocelots with whiskers of soil and hands of guilt give them a box of crayons to feed their families give them syrup and religion to sustain them through the hard times one good apocalypse and they will suffer no more they can whittle walrus tusks in hell with trowels it will entertain them it will be enough until tuesday tuesday they will want potatoes curmudgeon the amazing thing about geometry is the involvement of plastic residues daisies bow as her cape drags by, made of thistle and thyme and she groans with the effort clams by the cluster lap at her soles and at her very soul but she pauses only to shove her crown of thorns higher onto her mottled forehead and stagger onward the weight of britain on her bustle which jitters apelike at any movement rule britaninia rue britannia the queen was mutton and worse, she was mannequin what to do to say to make the burden bears? nothing for her throne is heavy and righteously so as it is firmly esconded in whale blubber all for the eating and chewing of sinew to make lovely bow ties for barristers they will throw themselves for christ right off bridges and into waiting pits of puddings treacle and tarts of types yet unheard of like tripe and kidney, penguin and cheshire cat with only a hint of nun it will be delightful fit for royalty but she will not attend as she is busy escaping from the clams who clatter at her hem if not for them though it would be a weary trugde to the shops to buy tape for her crumbling esteem and and handful of ants for her tongue |
