In my neck of the would bees. I had no kinfolk.
Just churlish Bears and Porridge out of Time
Like an AlmostPurple Stew.
Wings Clipped...glistening in the gloom;
Beating against Time -
Like Champions anointed to a Point
Of No Rebirth. With -
Only the Challenge of ingenious Farce
Banging the pots in our Potsdamer Platz.
With all speed. And all Mirth.
And All Nots.

Loose ships sink lips…
when they speak
Or What-Knot.