found poetry goes like:
“known ambassadors,
blindly creating rules
for unknown citizens
of other worlds,”
and
“yes! I said ‘worlds.’
it all goes wrong
but you must know
where it starts.”
and
“fuzzy fog in front
of fourteen dalmatians,
teeth bared.” and “which are you? well, you’re
not the dogs,
or ambassadors,
so what is left?
the answer is unsettling.”
Well, it looks like I've majorly lapsed on the poem-a-day habit. Not to worry. I'm taking a short break to finish the Balkey story line....
“What,” the young, scarred and scabbed Scib said, “did Mr. Pin calm him – Bixson-” And Balkey closed the gap as soon as the word left the...
Tell him Coral has finally gone sour and the Pin is as crooked as we all thought,” fryed Balkey and eyed the straight and tall, the...