New Things. By CpSingleton © 2016
I’m looking for meaning inside a pillow.
Cries that’re made when they chop down a willow.
A whimper, a warble; a scream from the land.
An “ahem” from the gentry who don’t understand.
‘Cause the foxes are fleeting; the moon’s lying still.
The food’s on the gantry in the form of a pill.
Owl has spoken; but her slur worded rant
Is making the horses inside me skitter and pant.
She demands more wine and a carton of Brie
To take with her pussy in a boat on the sea.
But I’ll not go with her; I have other fish pie.
It’s time that I wrestle the what from the why.
I need new questions; new paths made of silk.
Dragons and monkeys and maidens with milk.
Something to inspire the fool on the hill
A line that can say that I’m no bungalow bill.
A fanfare of Dumbos to fly me to Java
I’ll wash in volcanoes spewing with lava
The toffs will ‘ahem’ again, as that is their way.
And I’ll flick them the v’s and have new things to say.