Brendan du Rhododendron (Talkin' Sandwich Thin Blues)

A découpé poem dedicated to Colonel Abrams

The larch trees are waving goodbye;
The wind at my back,
blowing me on my way.

I descend the thirty thousand steps into Hell,
smoking a Superking
the whole way down.

Marching in Kiribati coconut armour.

Hey! Burgomaster
eating Filet-O-Fish
in your gilet so swish.
Stick them all
in your profiterole hole!
Sweet funeral baked meats...

Dawn breaks like pink wafers.

Crambly on his back legs.
Coiffured, with tinned mushrooms,
celery and quinoa.

Trapped, like Colonel Abrams:
A fading scaramouche;
the elephant man's lost trunk of funk.
Pie-eyed (of an advanced kind).

Beefy Swedes with turnip twigs.
Blackberry-bursting
spicy lovemakings.

What the pizza shovel?

Brendan du Rhododendron
did coldly, fol-de-roldly furnish
a perfect storm of Battenbergs.

I am not:
- a shower of Belgian buns;
- a source of Marie Rose misery;
- the Chia seeds of death.
Sincerely,
Cider-sodden Piper.
                                 (Exit, pursued by orcs.)

Too weak to play my theremin.

Darling of mongoose,
exquisite poltergoost,
I BESEECH THEE!

A dash of
instantly whipped,
sour green tea faces.
A prawn in the game of love.

*whimpers*

Feeling like a sandwich thin.
Can you imagine?

By the Order of the Crème Caramel,
I pick up my croquembouche.

Desiccated.
Undiluted.
An empty cake tin.

Gurnard and horse mackerel.
Unidentified frying objects.

You are the light of fruit stars,
a miasma of fried breakfasts.
A limitless vegetable cosmos
with a nose of toasty oak.

Going once... going twice... BOOTLAND!

What a long strange trip it's been...

 B.R. 10/03/2017

A Kiribati warrior, togged in coconut fibre armour and holding a shark tooth spear.