Chantilly For Depressi Spaghetti

She wanted a Peony; 30”x40”x1,5”; oil and wax

Any quibbling gadfly

Of awful ampelography
Knows Say’s Law very well.
They know hoke will sell,
But soon this, that, and the other
Will start to bother.
Perspicacious members of society
Can tell that obstruse insincerity
Garlands like oteka clotted cream,
To ensconce an exhausted dream.

Hold the Horsemen of Hod!

The time will come

To take a break
From geeking out.
When time turns moireish,
We’ll talk to the hand
That seconds
The dòdò niello
Of its tick.
Yet we vouch for
The benevolent dwile
Of its upbeat twattle
In life’s macramé fabric.

(A swan egg duck
May run out of luck,
But oh, hands up
to the uhuru
of the odd bod hod!)

Gone Ape

When comes the final
Taking the weight off the feet,
And life
Becomes an abligurition
That only participation
By ad hoc gamers of the hootenanny
May indulge in,
Even pan-loafy elongate rincons
Won’t flummox the grim reaper.
Walking away from the infectódromo
Is as futile
As a scrimshaw exhibit in hell.
A monkeypox
On all us apes
Of genius and of talent
When lands the latest bombshell.

Wild Golden Asses

Kick Up Your Heels
The coronapiste might now seem spurious,

Not a perennial for the dubious.

But, like agglutinative thought

Of piscine bicycles wrought,

We must indoctrinate shanks’s pony,

And never ever again be lonely.

If wishes were horses,

We’d bore in neighing courses.

We’d never take ill,

As fictosexual hinnies,

We’d scour kloof and hill,

Footloose and fancy-free ninnies.

We’d abstain and enjoy our win

Of freedom from geographical sin.

As high road hikikomori,

You’d never need to say sorry.

Burnt-Out Flying Monkeyshines

Flying Monkey
‘Came the witching hour

The moon shadow in a scorched earth petri dish,
A dollop of creamy colcannon.
Having taken a bawling out,
The felloes of the ramshackle cart,
Hitched to a shooting star,
Now need patching up,
Their coquetting tryst a farce,
The butterfingers drop a ball of nightmares.
But better to have loved foolishly,
Than not at all, the YSL thinks.
Who feeds on fulgurant false memory?
Oh, what fresh csùfnev madeleine hell,
The postmenopausal birth,
Art in pure production lost,
An endless predator pipeline,
Profiting by the blood of dinosaurs.
No rest for the wicked witches of the west,
Soon warming waters will wash over
The yellow brick road, bringing rest.