continuing the little tale of the little lost kisses

meanwhile, a sweaty
mess writhed
in the fantasy’s crevice
because not all had yet spurted
or if they’d spurted they had more
spurts, a veritable surplus
of spurts awaiting
ejection signals who
themselves were waiting

for fresh pails the pail-fillers were
charged with filling, down
by the brook where
bubbled the raw
essence of all this world’s
precious spurts, and they were
sweaty too
because this fantasy hosted
extra characters – characters
who’d recently relocated

next door and more or less
invited themselves; fantasy
dynamics were propelled
to a hotter high place thus the crevices
turned slippery, more slippery
than usual and the new
characters only winked
at each other between
their respective pendulums

though the winks
were quick because the limbs that snaked
around the waist
of one and the collarbone of
the other usurped interest
in all but the snaky limbs
sliding smoothly but firmly, around the waist
of one and the collarbone of the other,
which put the split ripe apricot

near the one so nothing else existed
and before reaching the speaker tool
to the dampened curls curled kinky
sent a fast telepathic message
heavenward about how
when luck takes a liking to a soul,
huge is the goblet joys like berry
gems tumble over the lips;
well anyway, those charged
with filling spurt pails and sending them
along the pulleys another team

caused with wheel
and lever to travel slightly squeaky
in graduated ascent, wondered
if their cake and teatime would
ever come around because never did
they have to keep filling pails from
the brook of spurts as they kept filling pails
from the brook of spurts for the fantasy
participants – even salts with grizzly

stubble found plenty of rusty
curses as they lugged one more pail
to hook to the pulley for the slightly
squeaky ascent. Just then a complaint
groaned from nearby, the groan
of complaint arising from behind
a small wall
of stones that had
once resided in a waterway

that always rippled.
Said, “you who work
the spurt brook haven’t a clue
what labor is.
Try grunt duty. I don’t think we
can scrabble much less cobble
another serving. But someone, one grunt
amongst us, must magically
figure out a way

to pop out more grunts. Oh you who
work the spurt brook haven’t
a clue what labor is.”
“Ah, this is the difference,”
intoned a younger worker
in spurts who also aspired to grow
into a seasoned salt who could show
off grizzled stubble. “As much as we
do puff and sweat, we do
not view what we do as labor.”


About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
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