PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The Rossaforts reciprocate gratitude, gracious acts of giving, dispensed out upon the public as frogs rain down from the sky. ‘We’ve breeched maximum security’ rabbits ribbit ribbons. Surely I should stop, but I simply cannot. I’ve been taken for a slave on this here ship. Even a simple, somewhat dominant thought-train is merely met with being read to, surfacing from the shallows on the metrics of your stupid and shallow imaginations... Damn, Dostoeyevsky is like Joyce’s Russian ‘Doppelganger’ as coined. The Rossaforts were the most prestigious travel passengers aboard. They gazed out upon the view and absence of anything that common city-kin might see land-wise, heave-ho, with binoculars no less! watching for whales, I reckon. ‘Oh shit, we’re being raided’ they say looking down those binoculars hard. ‘All hands man the cannons!’ Captain Clowry shouts from aft, wheeling the wheel and giving orders and such.

I never could’ve guessed what my life has become. Deep-rooted in the belief system whose broadest fractions alone risk being burned themselves like witches at the stake; not to mention this here missus who won’t flutter free from being ensheathed in these my wings, slurping my juicy mama's tomatoes without break, and this here much more regionally advanced and vast matter, as head of operations, winking back at you… As I said already, I work a monocle and top hat… The joy of wonder is only felt when you administer drugs of the quota premium standard, exploring a superior level of arrangements… Never to speak again, when the cosmos lie beyond… Most Certainly, My Majesty…