Its your Bee’s and Tee’s, that make us seeth.
Its the bottom of the harbour,
Its the top of the world.
Its everywhere inbetween, with a clenched fisted resolve.
Maybe theres a lord in there,
maybe there’s a corps.
Maybe theres just family and friends,
arranging anothers divorce.
Between the walls – between the sheets,
attentions generate judgements with each morning creak.
ready to pounce, ready to ward,
readied to the snoring scorning creep.
I dont care what you’ve been told,
but the planet were on is very very old.
Those that thought this place was round,
never stood up on mountains,
or surveyed under the ground.
But topalogically as with a fraid,
the endpoints concerned us – no noises were made.
The shues and shooshes, shouts and shouldands,
rhyme and reason, our brains demand.
But the nervous system doesnt catch on,
make a song and a dance of that wrong.
doesn’t a shaker we maker a jaker,
then quaker the faker into anothers baker.
Lace the cake – ankle a slice,
taked unbridged the souls of life.
To taught – to take,
to tripalate.
The Thought – the thin, that thickens our skin.
What internal struggles are you going in?
Shed the folios, shed the Tee’s,
a pat on the back is all it needs.
Shake their batty, shake their blade,
shake it up till their presence is made.
Boy’s and their Toy’s, The Trolls and their boils,
terrifficly bunched by broken brutal burping bails.