Nonsense

Shirt tales

Don’t commenton my dirty shirt,if you please.I am not inclinedto change it,lest I have bad luck again.This morning, the skyfavoured me with gull droppings.At lunch, it was blueberrieswithout a bib.Then, coffee,spilled by the infernal cat,who likes blueberries too.

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We come from the sun

We come from the Sun,they say to me,from the wrong side of my ear.But why?Why for?I mumble in cotton.For answer,they show their hands,oven-mittened.See. See our thumbs.They are wide.Splayed and strong.We will gentle you,raise you from the gorge. Life is but a dream.

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A theory of nonsense

Is there a ForeverWho can scope the great mindA yolk in an eggThen what is beyond the eggMonkeys and typewritersad infinitumThink your deep thoughtsand they surely will write ‘emStories of ourswill be amber-ingrainedand lain among flowersall freshened with rain

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a working man

Old Man. He come every day at twilight time. I hears the bony drum, cicada’s hum. He wear raggedy clothes, canvas cap, yellowy beard. And his work he does. Cranks that gear handle round and round. Powers up the tiny lights. Pinpoints in the pinwheel spiralled sky of night.

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Cunning, no less

whiskers are self-aware we think they train themselves and have a care and so avoid the sink the sharpest razor surest hand might catch them in the pink but the smarty ones just bend, don’t stand and miss the poet’s ink.

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