Thorny theories, swan songs
to ask but once
Anita Bryant , a  Southern librarian
swam Bathing suit
in the algae deemed
the origin of mankind,
betrothed or otherwise
whispered the newly keeper of the Fauna.

Barricades and Floundering
drift alongside the edge
and what is specifically excluded?
cantankerous vetch,
its bitter wiles.
Life rough-hewn
on a cusps of Moon,
whose dust return as
Libertines and Rakes
Born from the same lumière
with moral relativism to confound
and saddle such consequences.

"Footnotes" she publicly said the personality shorn,
both from my poem and the club,
the camaraderie I had expected as foregone, now unmerited
and the role trodden, had died.
C'est la guerre.

There is a brisk  discountenance
in an angry Mother's Moon
for their bespoke Sons onwards,
they snap their beaks,
pea size humanity,
resurface  buried adrenaline
from hockey days,
inwardly angry at their profligate fertility.
Its enough to de merit the spirit,
then store
a prosaic promise
that when older
their *** is marked for attention,
a discourteous tail chasing.
A mark of a indoctrinated Son.

A Galax of blossom
the woodland garden,
Solomons seal and Euphorbia too.
Cinderella
a melt down of lavender blue.
A walkway abode of enchantment.

A garden shade
Munstead White
a pocket full of delight
by means of useful musings

I became aware of my own solitude
a crestfallen fool,
there being no further care shown.
A pie dish that did not even rank a second thought,
cankerous I ought to think.
Maybe if I just snake around, then preen;
somebody get their just desserts.
Forget that, I was gooseberry to my best friend Marilyn
but alas the bloke was insincere,
it was a waste of her time.