There is something, Some
reason that scrape makes scrap
and boom resounds

Not on wings, or feet or fins
         on rails, pal
         laser violet and all
         around at once

Murmuring melodious
bowling stones and
         burning bicycles
         bombastic

O Muse, with no brains
ludibund and restless
gooned by the splendor
crowned in lightening
and short in the ribs

Meat and potatoes stick to your ribs
but I work when it rains and
when it's fine I sleep and play

B. Electives

Imbecilic hebephrenic
Chinese oxymoron
languish in lipstick
         and lather in trustfund

In pleasures, in faithful
in murderous Belgium
In colors fantastic in
         burns and in spores

They're leaving fortnightly
Blithe insect, tremendous
They'd murder your bedsprings
         and rewrite your floors

Don't hawkmoth
Don't Florence
         or further the problem
It's better, we eat more
or shorten the fall