Author: Mike Crowl

BASTE the ramen? The
RAMEN, don’t baste. The taste is
STAID and woody. That
WOODY taste is such a waste.

The
TOCSIN rings its heraldic
TONIC, beginning of the new jazz
SUITE, a piece that quickly has our fingers
CLICKing, and toes ticking.

ENDOW did you intend to
SULLY my
DYING father’s name,
UTILE me!

CHIEF, new, female, comes in with a
SWIRL; the assembled staff say
SHUSH to each other, each one trying to
OUTDO each other in shushiness.

LUCID,
MAGMA is not; a blazing red and orange shimmering force
SLIMEs its way towards us while someone screams on the
AUDIO.

RATTY twists among the cargo,
TWICE twists and thrice turns,
CARGO free for such as Ratty;
TWISTs twixt holds, bows and sterns.

THRUM I in a kind of hum,
CHASE away the sounds of drum,
CROWD turns pale to hear the
CONCH which brings to surface all their fear.

BURST a hole in the
LINEN beanbag; as a result the
TRAIN of itty bitty beans
SWEEP up I now have to.

METAL, the Meccano was; metal
MODEL in Meccano led to panic;
PANIC of a clueless parent; by
A GATE, made A GETA-way.

SWOON, you soft and sweet and
SALTY moon, you’re in a splendour
PHASE and soon your tender
MANIA is strewn in another land.