Cajoling the Cajoler

Burst the spoons on sweet lampoons
the nether tunes
of real fine loons, dipping through the water
Cat calling the seer who will see it all again.

Drive for grain in morning rain
cackling crane -
smashing off my window pane - wings in an arc of mercy
Taking to the skies beyond the viewable armies of dissent.

Come for dinner and bring the spinner
the small scale winner
and sometimes sinner, incensed at the hollowness
Of the hole to the left of his empty space.

Go to trance, the still-life dance
of circumstance
and men in France, drinking old-world coffee
Brewed from the beans of their empires.

And bring the fish, that saucy dish
my white water wish
the one that’s rich, with a white wine waiter
Serving seafood till Sunday service.

Quit the streams the hypnotic dream’s
not what it seems -
although it gleams, it seduces you to instinct
Then disciplines the disciple.

Journey down the governed gown,
stitched in town
by a conjunctive noun, with a whisky problem
And a bad attitude according to the accorders.

So drop a deal and skip the meal
Sign your seal
On the linen wheel, spinning with sweat
And the ones who built your things.

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