#Pieoneers

Blades Of Grass Tickle Each Other And I'm Paralysed By Their Snickers  By The Rustle Song Latched On To The Wind's Doodle Of A Back They Dance To Their Own Back And Forth Laughter An Ebb And Flow From Which I Learn I'm Not Alone In The Company They Preclude Amusement The Other Fellow Bloviates With The Silence As Do I Both Of Us, Smiling Pro Forma At Our Faite Accompli Both Of Us, Gung-Ho To Have Got The Dog Whistle Before Our Witty Wheaty Hosts Chucked And Chuckled The Apercu  "There's A Monster Lurking About Lithe And Traversing The World On A Different Axis" Our Self Appointed Agent Provocateurs Burst At The Seams With Hysteria Beholden To The Cacophony And, Bespoke To Their Subjects We Both Run, From Guilt By Association Association By Guilt, From Both, We Run   And From Each Other, We Are Associated By A Guilt The Guild That Yields, We Are Guilty Of Yielding Both The Guilt  And The Yield  Of Our First Kill

                                                  Are We Trapped In Each Other's Gaze                                                            Or You Only In Mine?                                                   As I Go Out To Decoupage My Days                                                   Does My Style Get A Lateral Co-Sign?                                                                       Inverted?

They Do Say "The Autumn Leaves That Never Asked To Fall, Find A Home In The Winds Of Change." The Objective Verity Of This Statement I Cannot Affirm Without Sullying My Solemnity. I Could Never Dare To Be That Much Imbued In Dare-Devilish Ways, Nor Reveries Natured Such. However, I Cannot Help But Wonder, Mind Muddily Befuddled, About The Cravings Of The Spring Flower. Did The Stalked Beau Ever Ask For The Beauty Of Bloom To Be Sprung About It? Could It Ever Ask For Such A Horrendous Gift? To Bloom And Be The Rug Of A Duty Charged Working Class Bee? To Bloom And Be The Purveyor Of Pollen It Never Gets To Revel Nor Relish In? Or Else Otherwise And Alternatively, To Bloom Hermaphrodite In Morphe, Only To Find Sanctuary Within The Contraption That Is A Nay-Sayer's Structured Sentence? Strung Words Whose Context Is Rigged Rigorously In A Royale Swearer's Regalia, Painted The Blossomed 'Selfish Usurper Of Own Inspiration To The World? An Ugly-Hogging-Hog Of All That&#

We Are Within The Crucible, Amidst A Roaring Sea Of Flames And Peril. The Heat Is On And That Ominous, Unrelenting Paradiddle That Your Ears Caught Wind Of Is The Inexorable Din Of An Inbound, Fast Approaching, Revolution. It Is The Sound Of Dominoes Vengefully Clobbering Against The Next, With Every Collision Setting In Effect The Diffusion Of A Contagious Spirit Of Courage. It Is The Song Of The Lid Dancing Above The Volcano That Is Our Boiling Heads. Yes, We Are A Generation Of Hot-Heads. We Have Always Been. Watchu Thought? Have You Not Witnessed With Your Own Two That We've Been Fuming From All Pores Like The Temples Of The Same Collieries That Stoke Your Politicians Bellies Fat? Even Before We Were Thrust Into The Jaws Of The Novel Monster, Our Collective Aura Was Ebullient, Fanning Out Into Every Space Cardinal With The Verve Of Our Youth, As Sickened As We Are, In Tow. But We Could Wait. We Could Wait Until Restrictions Are Eased Or Done Away With In Entirety. We Could Wait