(based on suggestions from @msmisrule, @_boobook_, @_camer0n, @hleighthree)
Emus tap staccato tables,
yoink a snag or two off
forty cent fizzing grills.
Meat spiked from bread,
white pinwheel corners nicked
from slim picnickings.
Avoid mock turkey with
thin fluorescent pickles,
stick to sauce sangers.
Swift as hungry wet cats,
big brown birds skip rapport.
Nip past oncoming droplets
with necks held ahead,
feathered devils. No one
says their nonsense names
or invokes thieving beaks.
No one calls them William:
they appear anyway.
Artless flightless antichrists
jab noodle necks across
a lunch spread surrealists
would puff up with pride.
Soggy triangles droop,
melted mealy timepieces.
Long past rain o’clock
children scream; sausageless.
Parents shoo the prehistoric.
____________________________________________________
Today's poem is based on suggestions from four peeps:
- @msmisrule: “rain, cats, lunch”
- @_camer0n: “cut-up nonsense dada Ftumch”
- @_boobook_ : “tapping”
- @hleighthree: “thin pickles”
Somehow, all of this made me think of emus and how they steal your food at picnics. The buggers. I've lost sausages right out of the bread in my hand.
Also, sauce sandwiches! Best barbeque food ever.
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