Trampoline serpents spit winds at the sand,
�(the winds gust a mere 10 degrees)
����ratchet the meter up one tiny notch,
bask in the flak from the breeze.

Stanzas repeated bleed tunes in your head
��(the winds gust at 20 degrees)
����counterpoint rhythms blast holes in the night
Scurry!- relentless squirrel feet.

Blanch sparrow clips to the telephone wire,
��reveals the beak hidden in wing.
����Bustard intruder, because he is higher,
will teach everybody to sing.

Crude plastic sandwich bags hang from your lips
��flecked with contumely disease.
����A bitten lip?-- mastic; but spastic, elastic.
It nuzzles, this verbose gangrene.

Laugh at that sparrow who sits on the wire!
��Lure him inside with bird seed.
����His pleasure is fleeting; his claws barely grasp
the current that runs 'neath his feet.

Coats lie in a corner, each tattered and torn,
��mere shells of linen-waste time.
����Astringent blue nimbus jig-waltz the fair fields.
Will you fit the latest design?

Snap bagel! Lose ladle! Drop cradle! And come!
��The winds pulse one h u n d r e d degrees
����Allegiance, I pray, to the new-tasted course;
revel in the coming unease.

Contemptible sparrow perched up on your wire,
��you'll never live close to the bone.
����Ask me again if I care what you think
then go fly your silly ass home.

Endorphins rip purse strings from grinch pleasure cells
��(the winds pulse untempered degrees)
����Toxicity charms and calamity swells.
Despoil detractors with ease.

Despotic arachnids spelunking in lime
��fay to the e'er cursing walls,
����empires they've built of harmonious wrath
will leech from the beats of a song.

Enliven this film! Dress a life stricken numb
��with a copse of enameled blood paint.
����Effeminate reason pleads, "Ain't it enough
to find that you taunt what you taint?"

Finger salute! Fear the sun, Mistress Fog,
��stagger new-blessed from this scene.
����Set what remains on the long journey home.
The wind gusts a mere 10 degrees.


� 2004 by Edward J. O' Brien