Time savours all things

Love is chocolate,
delightful all at once, true,
but better savoured.

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At the termineria?

There was a request for a moratoria
even though there was no cost: it was all honoraria
all that I write in this conservatoria;
here there is no phantasmagoria gloria!
No. It’s nay vomitoria or cafeteria
filled with tepidaria bacteria
but having said that, it isn’t sanataria
either nor in Bashkiria, Vitoria and even, friend, Moria.
No inferior or superior.
Still this should be no barrier
to this being a cure for hypochondria
unlike a nudist colony in Bulgaria.
Nor anterior or, in essentials, posterior
but dig deeper, interior, and stop with the worry exterior.
For with an end you get euphoria, euphoria, euphoria!

Something Greater than me

Is it the bunny that I see?
Is it the stethoscope? Nope.
Is the lariat about my 10 gallon hat?
Is it the cable from Clark Gable?

No. It’s something greater than me.

Could it be Jack coming back?
Could it be my friend? That’s an end.
Could it be my wife? She’s my life.
Could it be the figure I can’t augur?

No. It’s something greater than me.

What about the schizoid in the void?
What about the summoning not coming?
What about the shih tzu sniffing at the poo?
What about the tapas at my Papa’s?

No. It’s something greater than me.

So I’d better pay attention.

Source of the Cosmos

The wild ones from the Steppes
called lordly Hippemolgi
descended on and terrified those persians and greeks
long before romans roamed.
They were born riding
and natural bowmen making frightening warriors.
Impossible to conquer since how
can you subjugate mounted nomads with no cities?
They survived rough
tied to their horses so closely
that these were the source of their cosmos.
So intimate that they knew
how to play bone to stimulate the secret parts of mares
and cause the milk to flow and sustain them.
This was their beer and food.
Punched in hide bags as one entered a yurt
or agitated by riding
or stirred by blinded slaves captured
and that skimmed from the top
was the champagne of milk.
Now real koumiss is medicinal,
Leo and Anton thought so,
and so many seek descendants of aurochs,
more plentiful and easier to milk,
to fake it but that travesty is not as sweet.
For the people of the horse
strewn out on the land below the milk in the night sky
there is no replacing that mirror
of the cosmos they found below.
That made them strong.

A Metabolic Magic

Metabolism. n. The chemic processes that occur in a biologic organism in order to maintain life.

First we begin isagogic
with time so geologic as to be part mythologic
but don’t get carried anyway by my illogic.
I want all ethnologic replaced by teleologic.
A cell’s engines are bounded by hydraulic
membranes lipophobic and lipophilic
(but not lpgrphic)
with trans and comm proteins to alert the allergic
but we also need an energy workaholic
with might a chondric
and memory aids polycyclic
to reproduce meiotic and mitotic
(often in public)
or it will be sick [sic]
or, worse, necrophilic.

The Meeting To-Do

The rain embarrassed my way to the tickety-boo
but no one pointed, no one jeered, it was all how-do-you-do?
I slunk and droplets of water dehydrated off me jackaroo
and I tried to aplomb myself thereto do a switcheroo.
It wasn’t cold, I didn’t chill, to a colour true-blue,
though it could have taken place peekaboo.
I set my dessert out and knew I was going to outdo
the rest of the offerings even if no one could mangetout
but no, wrong! Those who tried were few
and their fingers turned brown. Would they sue?
But know hitherto, that Lao-tzu could only misconstrue.
I slunk to the back which I thought well-to-do
but tu-whit tu-whoo I was dragged to the front view
and said my ‘Hi’ then to screw my toodle-oo
in true askew but, so easily, my skew was aperçu.