Stagecraft At The Temple

Our guru cyclones in –

Pantomime dame falsies,

Snazzy banana ear-rings.

We’re alert or lie-abed,

By calibre, disembarrassed souls.

Headway is fundamentally a pose.

Money Pouch Banter

Our guru clucks

To his market-stall Rolex.

Flashbacks are virulences

That dodge time-bending.

Yore-fun’s pictures

Shuffle themselves to omnipotence,

Archetyping tarots

For dewy lives.

Dropping Through Cracks

Our guru live wires

That rat-shaped bulb,

Frazzling celestial dodgems.

Proceedings are whip-handed.

Jam sesh: The Grateful Dead v Us.

Orphaned by destination,

Wheels flop-gripped.

Sunup is ticketless.

The Emptying

Turmeric holdovers on Miss Piggy t-shirt.

Fresh rap about every simper’s alpha –

Our guru’s on dictum.

We yum with postures of schisms;

Tomorrow we’ll be hustled for moolah.

 Soapless Journeys

A 3-splits mirror,

Furfur is this turnout’s replica.

Unclasping ingrates purse,

The secret heart, libido.  In memory,

Our guru dunked at hallowing waters.

Though time herself mislays the pure.