Ode by Lewis Carroll = me
the chocolate eight
of a cake of chocolate cherry
the magic buttons on the silver coat
turned twice
and presst against the breast of society
the cake was great – as a matter of fact
it was all we ate
the cherry turned full-round on its heel
and rolled into the cup of orange peel
and then a cup of tea
Something cannot take away the joy
of cake of chocolate; not a hater or a debater
not a Wilmhing winer of a dine
the hourglasss and the end of the old oak table
stained brown
the cake remains a perfect harmony
unto itself
©2016 Rudolf Kurt Penner
lo-fi protocols
It’s so boring when you’re drunk
to hear ordinary announcements
You take a hard rock candy Black Russian along on your bike
riding in the Sun-day
thru the throngs of Sun-Run
roadies all spooked in white
with printing, black in nature
The cloud rolls in, but it is not sick,
there’s an eerie clamour towards
the sky; red pens won’t
record the district atmosphere
sentimentality is on record as being obscene, but would
you and I agree
When boredom drives you to the
movies – any movie will do
while the organs play in a small town –
you’d be hard-pressed to hear two together in this day and age; maybe
congruously in several towns
via satellite or VOIP
but no SOUND QUALITY CAN endure
the lo-fi protocols
of quick snappy access to sound
dream of a fat pig flying thru the sky
with motorized jet stream coming out of its arse
The bike is orange
the racing flag decals
black and chequered white
The drink is brown
with massive cubes of God’s ice
The peacock struts its stuff
some claim a narcissistic pattern
but not so – the St. Nick of your soul must rest in Narcissus
taking + picking gold rings from
the fir & gold tree
They have beed wrested well from strangers
who had them made, carved + poured in molds
the wax ran out
the pig was rescued from the sky
which was yellow and silver today
caring for the debut princess
in the school play
the theater of the mind;
a boy reading in his Boy Scouts outfit
clear as a bell that rang from hell
The Theatrical Director will sing
the oranges will fall from a crate and barely bounce
for fear of brown
warehouse darkness
like the Orange
the mind can be full of zesty honours
just fit for flashy birds to take
on their journey
missive cues of god’s mind
a translucent cold
fear of racing wheels
* vocabulary: missive
© 2015 Rudolf Kurt Penner
