Bad Behaviour

She smiles and considers the crowd, all backward somersaulting detached vagabonds, all, serious soft smalls revealed - marshmallows imbued with the glee of writing irregular poetry; works of art thou art, thou art, thou art, all indeed - and what did Dickinson say, “the Maples never knew that you were coming - I declare, how red their faces grew” - well, we all march on, and by the side of our roads, the righteous town criers of prognostication, stand their grounds for commentary, like sensate servile monks full of the base sound facts, ringing their shellac bells, like an exercise in pulling weights; the waits inside their cries foretell, of the things we do not know, will never know, like the bride we all are, gullible, innocent of what is to come, but we dance our dance flirting with luscious life beckoning come hither, we still write our own vows, and throw our skirts asunder, spinning bottles, all undressed half addressed half said, punctilious lost in wayward pentameter, such bad whirling dervish behaviour, truth and dare and Father Time will kiss and tell we poetically march on we all march on we think we know which side we're on Candide Diderot. ‘24 “All those Hills you left for me to Hue, There was no Purple suitable - You took it all with you. Who knocks? That April. Lock the Door - I will not be pursued” Emily Dickinson. March.