my very own lemon meringue.
it has the mood of a horse
as I chomp on it\'s bit
as it bellows. and bellows. and bellows.
it was never a straight cut of yellow.
it was a prime of life
with ears that never dared to swim
or skin the hide of April as she pinned
the round side of it\'s neck
never bright enough to kiss or rummage through.
staid beneath consortium of liberal and grief
never tall enough to march
with the whistle-blowers,
foaming at the mouth.
I am too far south to love the artic charr,
though am told it melts the palette
of such uncomforming things.
sting my tail of jabberwocky\'s
pale and slithy toves
look through the glass of Alice
as she points her fingers
her zero senseless toes.
power mine said lord of tumeric.
if it cannot move, bend it!
and when I\'ve eaten my very own lemon meringue
I will yodle through a fish-pond
of my very own gobbledygook;